path: root/62668-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 62668 ***

                          THE LIFE OF BERLIOZ

                        _All rights reserved._

                   [Illustration: _Hector Berlioz._]




                              THE LIFE OF

                            HECTOR BERLIOZ

                         AS WRITTEN BY HIMSELF

                                IN HIS

                          LETTERS AND MEMOIRS

                            [Illustration]

                      TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
                         WITH AN INTRODUCTION

                                  BY

                           KATHARINE F BOULT

                            [Illustration]

                                LONDON
                           J. M. DENT & CO.
                     NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
                                 1903




CONTENTS


CHAP.                                                               PAGE

I. LA CÔTE SAINT-ANDRÉ                                                 1

II. ESTELLE                                                            5

III. MUSIC AND ANATOMY                                                10

IV. PARIS                                                             16

V. CHERUBINI                                                          22

VI. MY FATHER’S DECISION                                              27

VII. PRIVATION                                                        31

VIII. FAILURE                                                         37

IX. A NIGHT AT THE OPERA                                              42

X. WEBER                                                              46

XI. HENRIETTE                                                         50

XII. MY FIRST CONCERT                                                 56

XIII. AN ACADEMY EXAMINATION                                          64

XIV. FAUST--CLEOPATRA                                                 71

XV. A NEW LOVE                                                        80

XVI. LISZT                                                            91

XVII. A WILD INTERLUDE                                                96

XVIII. ITALIAN MUSIC                                                 108

XIX. IN THE MOUNTAINS                                                113

XX. NAPLES--HOME                                                     120

XXI. MARRIAGE                                                        128

XXII. NEWSPAPER BONDAGE                                              135

XXIII. THE REQUIEM                                                   143

XXIV. FRIENDS IN NEED                                                152

XXV. BRUSSELS--PARIS OPERA CONCERT                                   159

XXVI. HECHINGEN--WEIMAR                                              167

XXVII. MENDELSSOHN--WAGNER                                           177

XXVIII. A COLOSSAL CONCERT                                           187

XXIX. THE RAKOCZY MARCH                                              193

XXX. PARIS--RUSSIA--LONDON                                           200

XXXI. MY FATHER’S DEATH--MEYLAN                                      211

XXXII. POOR OPHELIA                                                  216

XXXIII. DEAD SEA FRUIT                                               222

XXXIV. GATHERING TWILIGHT                                            230

XXXV. THE TROJANS                                                    241

XXXVI. ESTELLE ONCE MORE                                             251

XXXVII. THE AFTERGLOW                                                272

XXXVIII. DARKNESS AND LIGHT                                          289




ILLUSTRATIONS


BERLIOZ                                                    _Frontispiece_

THE VILLA MEDICI[A]                                   _to face page_ 112

MONTMARTRE CEMETERY[A]                                      ”  ”     216

GRENOBLE[A]                                                 ”  ”     257




INTRODUCTION


Autobiography is open to the charge of egoism; somewhat unjustly since,
in writing of oneself, the personal note must predominate and, in the
case of a genius--sure of his goal and of his power to reach it--faith
in himself amounts to what, in a smaller man, would be mere conceit.

This must be condoned and discounted for the sake of the priceless gift
of insight into a personality of exceptional interest.

Berlioz’ Memoir, graphic as it is, cannot be called satisfactory as a
character-study. He says plainly that he is not writing confessions,
but is simply giving a correct account of his life to silence the
many false versions current at the time. Therefore, while describing
almost too minutely some of his difficulties and most of his
conflicts--whereby he gives the impression of living in uncomfortably
hot water--his very real heroism comes out only in his Letters, and
then quite unconsciously.

The Memoir and Letters combined, however, make up an interesting and
fascinating picture of the heights, depths, limitations and curious
inconsistencies of this weird and restless human being.

The music-ridden, brutal, undisciplined creature of the
Autobiography--more a blind, unreasoning force of Nature than an
ordinary being, subject to the restrictions of common humanity--could
not possibly be the man who was rich in the unswerving affection of
such widely different characters as Heine, Liszt, Ernst, Alexandre,
Heller, Hiller, Jules Janin, Dumas and Bertin; there must be something
unchronicled to account for their loyalty and patience. This something
is revealed in the Letters.

There stands the real Berlioz--musician and poet; eager to drain life
to the dregs, be they sweet or bitter, to taste the fulness of being.
There we find a faithful record of thoughts, feelings, aspirations, and
a reflection of every passing mood. With one notable exception: even to
Ferrand he never admitted that the poor reception of _The Trojans_ (for
it met with but a _succès d’estime_) broke his heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

As a record of events the Autobiography is deficient, and after 1848
becomes a mere sketch. Thus, while writing pages of description of
orchestral players and musical institutions in German and Austrian
cities--quite suitable to his newspaper articles, but wearisome in
their iteration, and throwing no light upon himself--he is almost
entirely silent on his later trips to London. And the visits to
Baden--brightest days of his later years--are dismissed in a footnote.

He lingers pathetically over young days, and hurries through the
dreary time close at hand. So, for a record of the daily conflict with
physical pain; of the overshadowed domestic life--none the easier to
bear in that it was partly his own fault; of the grinding, ever-present
shortness of money; of his wild and beautiful dreams; and of the large
place that Ferrand, Morel, Massart, Damcke and Lwoff (many of whom are
not named in the memoir) held in his heart--we turn to the Letters.

The fearless, unbroken affection for his Jonathan--Humbert Ferrand;
the passionate love for his only son, mingled with impatience at
Louis’ youthful instability; the whole-hearted ungrudging appreciation
he extended to young and honest musicians--particularly to Camille
Saint-Saëns--are a grateful contrast to the gloomy defiance,
tornado-like fury, and eternal jeremiads over the hypocrisy and
hollowness of Paris that mar the Memoir.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of his ill-starred first marriage he says but little, either in Memoir
or Letters.

He and Miss Smithson were far too highly-strung for peaceful life to
be possible, even without the added friction of ill-health, want of
money (which, however, he says never daunted her), and the probable
misunderstandings so likely to arise from their different nationalities.

It may be due to his special form of artistic temperament--that
well-worn apology for everything _déréglé_--that he could find room in
his heart, or head, for more than one love at a time, and could even
analyse and classify each.

Within a month he bounds from the nethermost despair over the
uncertainties of his English divinity to the highest rapture over his
Camille, his Ariel, as he calls Marie Pleyel.

Later on, when Marie is safely disposed of and Henriette is again
in the ascendant, while she vacillates between family and lover, he
seriously contemplates running off to Berlin with a poor girl whom he
has befriended, and whom, when Henriette finally relents, he calmly
hands over to Jules Janin to provide for.

Of his second wife we hear but little, except that even affection did
not blind him to the defects in her musical gifts. For, on his first
German tour, he wrote to Morel:

“Pity me! Marie wished to sing at Stuttgart, Mannheim and Hechingen.
The two first were bearable, but the last!... Yet she would not hear of
my engaging another singer.”

Then he incidentally and whimsically mentions an innocent embryo
love-affair in Russia, and, in 1863, makes such tragic and mysterious
reference to an impossible love, that Ferrand, seriously alarmed,
thinks that Louis must have become more than usually troublesome.

The influence of Estelle Fournier, which pervaded his whole life, comes
under a different category. He was without religion; she supplied
its place. She was his dream-lady, the Beatrice to his Dante, that
necessary worship which no great soul can forego. The proof of this is
that, when he met her again--old, sweet, dignified and still beautiful
to him--his allegiance never wavered; she was still the Mountain Star
of his childhood’s days.

If his capacity for love was unlimited, it was not so with his sense of
humour, which was curiously circumscribed. Occasionally he rivals Heine
in power of seeing the odd side of his own divagations; his account of
his headlong flight from Rome to murder the whole erring Moke family
is inimitable. Yet he never discovers--as a man with a true sense of
humour would have done--that, in sharpening his rapier on Wagner and
the Music of the Future, he is meting out to a struggling composer
precisely the same measure that the Parisians had meted out to himself.
It speaks volumes for the strength of his friendship with Liszt that
even Wagnerism could not divide them.

       *       *       *       *       *

La Côte Saint-André is a large village some thirty odd miles from
Grenoble; here, in a handsome house in the Rue de la République, Louis
Hector Berlioz was born. His home education and seclusion from healthy
school-life and the society of other children of his age ill-fitted him
for the battle of life, which began with his medical student career in
Paris.

He describes the quarrels with his parents and stoppage of his
allowance in 1826, but passes lightly over the privations and
semi-starvation that undoubtedly laid the foundations of that internal
disease which embittered his latter years. His graphic account of those
early Parisian days is one of the most interesting parts of the Memoir.
He declared that his time in Italy, after gaining the Prix de Rome, was
musically barren. Yet this must be a mistake, since, to the memory of
his mountain wanderings he owed the inspiration of _Harold_. And even
if he apparently gained nothing in music, the experience of what to
avoid and the influence of beautiful scenery--to which he was always
peculiarly sensitive--counted for much in his general development.

With his return to Paris his character took form, and he began his
life-long warfare against shams and empiricism. Newspaper work, hated
as it was, had a great share in moulding him. Each year he grew
more autocratic, and each year more hated for his uncompromising
sledge-hammer speech. But Ferrand was correct in saying that he could
write. His style is clear, incisive, perfect and even elegant French,
although, naturally, owing to the exigencies of its production, it is
often unequal. The first years of his marriage were ideal in spite
of their penury. The young couple had a côterie of choice friends,
amongst whom Liszt took a foremost place, but gradually the clouds
gathered, the rift within the lute widened, until a separation became
inevitable; even then Berlioz does not attempt--as so many men of his
impatient spirit might have done--to shirk responsibility and throw
upon others the burden of his hostage to fortune--an unsympathetic
invalid--but works the harder at his literary tread-mill to provide her
indispensable comforts. Poor Henriette’s side of the story is untold,
and one can but say:

    “The pity of it!”

His troubles in Paris and the triumphs abroad that were their antidote
made up the rest of his stormy, restless pilgrimage; yet even in
ungrateful Paris he was not entirely neglected.

He received the Legion of Honour, and although professing to despise
it, he always wore the ribbon. He was also chosen one of the Immortals,
apropos of which M. Alexandre tells a funny story.

Alexandre was canvassing for him and found great difficulty in managing
Adolph Adam, who was from Berlioz as the poles asunder.

First he went to Berlioz, who had flatly refused to make the slightest
concession to Adam’s prejudices.

“Come,” said he, “do at least be amiable to Adam; you cannot deny that
he is a musician, at any rate.”

“I don’t say he is not; but, being a great musician, how can he lower
himself to comic-opera? If he chose he could _write such music as I
do_.”

Undismayed, Alexandre went to Adam.

“You will give your vote to Berlioz, will you not, dear friend?
Although you cannot appreciate each other, you will own that he is a
thorough musician.”

“Certainly, he is a great musician, a really great one, but his
music is awfully tiresome. Why!”--and little Adam straightened his
spectacles--“why, if he chose he could compose ... as well as I do.
But, seriously, he is a man of some importance, and I promise that,
after Clapisson, who already has our votes, Berlioz shall have the next
vacancy.”

By a strange coincidence, the next _fauteuil_ was Adam’s own, to which
Berlioz was elected by nineteen votes.

In his weak state of health, Berlioz was quite unfit to face the
innumerable worries incidental to the production of _The Trojans_. For
seven years it had been his chief object in life, and if, as he said,
he could have had everything requisite at his command, with unlimited
capital to draw upon--as Wagner had with Louis of Bavaria--all might
have been well. But to fight, contrive, temporise and propitiate all at
once was more than his enfeebled frame and irascible spirit could stand.

Hence his great injustice to Carvalho, who, for Art’s sake, sacrificed
money, time and reputation to an extent that crippled him for many
years.

Embittered by the failure of his opera, which ran for about twenty-five
nights, he shut himself up in his rooms with Madame Recio, his devoted
mother-in-law, and an old servant, and from that time visited only a
few intimate friends.

One last shock Fate held in store. Louis died of fever abroad, and
for his lonely father life had no more savour--he simply existed,
with, however, two last flashes of the old bright flame. One when,
at Herbeck’s desire, he went to Vienna to conduct the _Damnation de
Faust_, and the other when the Grand Duchess Helen prevailed on him to
visit St Petersburg again.

That was the real end.

On leaving Russia he wandered drearily to Nice--a ghost revisiting its
old-time haunts--then made one last appearance at Grenoble, and so the
flame went out. He who had never peace in life was at rest at last.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of his music this is not the place to speak. He has fully described his
own ideas, others have analysed them, and we are now concerned with the
man himself.

To this is due the somewhat disjointed form of the translation--the
mixture of Memoir and Letters. It seemed the only possible way
of showing Berlioz in all his aspects and of keeping the record
chronologically correct.

Yet we could wish that he, who had so much affinity with England and
its literature, could meet with due appreciation here.

He has founded no school (in spite of Krebs’ prophecy), unless the
“programme music” now so much in vogue can be traced back to him, but,
beginning with Wagner, every orchestral composer since his day owes
him a debt of gratitude for his discoveries--his daring and original
combinations of instruments, and his magnificent grouping and handling
of vast bodies of executants.




CHRONOLOGY


    1803. Louis Hector Berlioz born.

    1822. Medical student in Paris.

    1824. Mass failed at Saint-Roch under Masson.

    1825. Mass succeeded.

    1826. Failed in preliminary examination for Conservatoire
    competition.

    1827. Passed preliminary and entered for competition. His _Orpheus_
    declared unplayable.

    1828. Third attempt. _Tancred_ obtained second prize. Saw Miss
    Smithson. Gave first concert.

    1829. Fourth attempt. _Cleopatra._ No first prize given.

    1830. Gained Prix de Rome with _Sardanapalus_. Marie Pleyel.

    1831. Rome. _Symphonie Fantastique_ and _Lélio_.

    1832. Concert at which Miss Smithson present on 9th December.

    1833. Marriage. In November Henriette’s benefit and failure.

    1834. Louis born. _Harold_ performed in November.

    1835. _Symphonie Funèbre_ begun.

    1836. _Requiem._

    1837. _Benvenuto Cellini_ finished.

    1838. Paganini’s present.

    1839. _Romeo and Juliet._

    1840. _Funèbre_ performed. First journey to Brussels.

    1841. Festival at Paris Opera House.

    1842-3. First tour in Germany.

    1844. _Carnaval Romain._ Gigantic concert in the Palais de
    l’Industrie. Nice.

    1845. Cirque des Champs Elysées concert. Marseilles. Lyons. Austria.

    1846. Hungary. Bohemia. In December, failure of _Damnation de
    Faust_.

    1847. Russia. Berlin. In November, London, as conductor at Drury
    Lane.

    1848. London. In July, Paris. Death of Dr Berlioz.

    1849. _Te Deum_ begun.

    1850. _Childhood of Christ_ begun.

    1851. Member of Jury at London Exhibition.

    1852. _Benvenuto Cellini_ given by Liszt at Weimar. In March,
    London, _Romeo and Juliet_. May, conducted Beethoven’s _Choral
    Symphony_. June, _Damnation de Faust_.

    1854. March, Henriette died. Dresden. Marriage with Mdlle. Récio.

    1855. North German tour. Brussels. _Te Deum._ In June, London.
    _Imperial Cantata._ On Jury of Paris Exhibition.

    1856. _The Trojans_ begun.

    1858. Concerts in the Salle Herz brought in some thousands of
    francs.

    1861. Baden.

    1862. Marie Berlioz died. _Beatrice and Benedict_ performed at
    Baden.

    1863. Weimar. _Childhood of Christ_ at Strasburg. In November, _The
    Trojans_.

    1864. In August, made officer of Legion of Honour. Dauphiny.
    Meylan. Estelle Fournier.

    1865. Geneva, to see Estelle.

    1866. In December to Vienna, to conduct _Damnation de Faust_.

    1867. In June Louis died. In November, Russia.

    1868. Russia. Paris. Nice. In August, Grenoble.

    1869. Died 8th March.




THE LIFE OF BERLIOZ




I

LA CÔTE SAINT-ANDRÉ


Decidedly ours is a prosaic century. On no other grounds can my wounded
vanity account for the humiliating fact that no auspicious omens, no
mighty portents--such as heralded the birth of the great men of the
golden age of poetry--gave notice of my coming. It is strange, but
true, that I was born, quite unobtrusively, at La Côte Saint-André,
between Vienne and Grenoble, on the 11th December 1803.

As its name implies, La Côte Saint-André lies on a hillside overlooking
a plain--wide, green, and golden--of which the dreamy majesty is
accentuated by the mountain belt that bounds it on the southeast, being
in turn crowned by the mystic glory of distant Alpine glaciers and
snowy peaks.

Needless to say, I was brought up in the Catholic faith. This--of all
religions the most charming, since it gave up burning people--was for
seven years the joy of my life, and although we have since fallen out,
I still retain my tender memories of it.

Indeed, so greatly am I in sympathy with its creed that, had I had the
misfortune to be born in the clutches of one of the dreary schisms
hatched by Luther and Calvin, I should certainly, at the first
awakening of my poetic instinct, have thrown off its benumbing grasp
and have flung myself into the arms of the fair Roman.

My sweet remembrance of my first communion is probably due to my having
made it with my elder sister at the Ursuline convent, where she was a
boarder.

At early morn, accompanied by the almoner, I made my way to that holy
house. The soft spring sunlight, the murmuring poplars swaying in
the whispering breeze, the dainty fragrance of the morning air, all
worked upon my sensitive mind, until, as I knelt among those fair white
maidens, and heard their fresh young voices raised in the eucharistic
hymn, my whole soul was filled with mystic passion. Heaven opened
before me--a heaven of love and pure delight, a thousand times more
glorious than tongue has told--and thus I gave myself to God.

Such is the marvellous power of genuine melody, of heart-felt
expression! Ten years later I recognised that air--so innocently
adapted to a religious ceremony--as “When my beloved shall return,”
from d’Aleyrac’s opera _Nina_.

Dear, dead d’Aleyrac! Even your name is forgotten now!

This was my musical awakening.

Thus abruptly I became a saint, and such a desperate saint! Every day I
went to mass, every Sunday I took the communion, every week I went to
confession in order to say to my director:

“Father, I have done nothing.”

“Well, my son,” would the worthy man reply, “continue.”

I followed his advice strictly for many years.

Louis Berlioz, my father, was a doctor. It is not my place to sing his
praises. I need, therefore, only say that he was looked upon as an
honoured friend, not only in our little town, but throughout the whole
country side. Feeling acutely his responsibility as the steward of a
difficult and dangerous profession, every minute he could spare from
his sick people was given to arduous study, and never did the thought
of gain turn him aside from his disinterested service to the poor and
needy.

In 1810, the medical society of Montpellier offered a prize for the
best treatise on a new and important point in medicine, which was
gained by my father’s monograph on Chronic Diseases. It was printed in
Paris, and many of its theories adopted by physicians, who had not the
common honesty to acknowledge their source. This somewhat surprised my
dear, unsophisticated father, but he only said, “If truth prevails,
nothing else matters.”

Now (I write in 1848) he has long since ceased to practise, and spends
his time in reading and peaceful thought.

Of the highest type of liberal mind, he is entirely without social,
political, or religious prejudices; for instance, having promised
my mother to leave my faith undisturbed, I have known him carry his
tolerance so far as to hear me my catechism. This is considerably more,
I must own, than I could do were my own son in question.

For many years my father has suffered from an incurable disease of
the stomach. He scarcely eats at all, and nothing but constant and
increasing doses of opium keep him alive. He has told me that, years
ago, worn out by the prolonged agony, he took thirty-two grains at once.

“It was not as a cure that I took it,” he said, significantly.

But, strange to say, this terrific dose of poison, instead of killing
him, gave him for some time a respite from his sufferings.

When I was ten years old he sent me to a priest’s school in the town
to learn Latin, but the result not proving satisfactory he resolved to
teach me himself.

And with the most untiring patience, the most intense care, my father
became my instructor in history, literature, languages, geography--even
in music.

Yet I must own that I do not think a solitary education like mine
half as good for a boy as ordinary school life. Children brought up
among relations, servants, and specially chosen friends only, do not
get accustomed to the rough-and-tumble that best fits them to face
the world. Real life is to them a dosed book, their angles are not
rubbed off, and I know that, in my own case, at twenty-five I was still
nothing but an awkward, ignorant child.

Indulgent as my father was over my work, yet, for a long while, he
was unable to make me love the classics. It seemed impossible to me
to concentrate my thoughts long enough to learn by heart a few lines
of Horace and Virgil; impatient of the beaten track my wayward mind
flew off to the entrancing unknown world of the atlas, roving gaily
through the labyrinth of islands, capes, and straits of the Pacific and
the Indian Archipelago. This was the origin of my love for travel and
adventure.

My father truly said of me:

“He knows every isle of the South Seas, but cannot tell me how many
departments there are in France!”

Every book of travel in the library was pressed into my service, and
I should most certainly have run away to sea if we had lived in a
seaport. My son inherits my taste. He chose the navy for his profession
long ere he saw the sea. May he do honour to his choice!

However, in the end the love of poetry and appreciation of its
beauty awoke in me. The first spark of passion that fired my heart
and imagination was kindled by Virgil’s magnificent epic, and I well
remember how my voice broke as I tried to construe aloud the fourth
book of the Æneid. One day, stumbling along, I came to the passage
where Dido--the presents of Æneas heaped around her--gives up her life
upon the funeral pyre; the agony of the dying queen, the cries of her
sister, her nurse, her women; the horror of that scene that struck pity
even to the hearts of the Immortals, all rose so vividly before me that
my lips trembled, my words came more and more indistinctly, and at the
line--

    “Quæsivit cœlo lucem ingemuitque reperta,”

I stopped dead.

Then my dear father’s delicate tact stepped in. Apparently noticing
nothing, he said, gently:

“That will do for to-day, my boy; I am tired.”

And I tore away to give vent to my Virgilian misery unmolested.




II

ESTELLE


Will it be credited that when I was only twelve years old, and even
before I fell under the spell of music, I became the victim of that
cruel passion so well described by the Mantuan?

My mother’s father, who bore a name immortalised by
Scott--Marmion--lived at Meylan, about seven miles from Grenoble. This
district, with its scattered hamlets, the valley of the winding Isère,
the Dauphiny mountains that here join a spur of the Alps, is one of the
most romantic spots I know. Here my mother, my sisters, and I usually
passed three weeks towards the end of summer.

Now and then my uncle, Felix Marmion, who followed the fiery track of
the great Emperor, would pay a flying visit during our stay, wreathed
with cannon smoke and ornamented with a fine sabre cut across the face.
He was then only adjutant-major in the Lancers; but young, gallant,
ready to lay down his life for one look from his leader, he believed
the throne of Napoleon as stable as Mont Blanc. His taste for music
made him a great addition to our gay little circle, for he both sang
and played the violin well.

High over Meylan, niched in a crevice of the mountain, stands a small
white house, half-hidden amidst its vineyards and gardens, behind which
rise the woods, the barren hills, a ruined tower, and St Eynard--a
frowning mass of rock.

This sweet secluded spot, evidently predestined to romance, was the
home of Madame Gautier, who lived there with two nieces, of whom the
younger was called Estelle. Her name at once caught my attention from
its being that of the heroine of Florian’s pastoral _Estelle and
Némorin_, which I had filched from my father’s library, and read a
dozen times in secret.

Estelle was just eighteen--tall, graceful, with large, grave,
questioning eyes that yet could smile, hair worthy to ornament the
helmet of Achilles, and feet--I will not say Andalusian, but pure
Parisian, and on those little feet she wore ... pink slippers!

Never before had I seen pink slippers. Do not smile; I have forgotten
the colour of her hair (I fancy it was black), yet, never do I recall
Estelle but, in company with the flash of her large eyes, comes the
twinkle of her dainty pink shoes. I had been struck by lightning. To
say I loved her comprises everything. I hoped for, expected, knew
nothing but that I was wretched, dumb, despairing. By night I suffered
agonies, by day I wandered alone through the fields of Indian corn, or
sought, like a wounded bird, the deepest recesses of my grandfather’s
orchard.

Jealousy--dread comrade of love--seized me at the least word spoken
by a man to my divinity; even now I shudder at the clank of a spur,
remembering the noise of my uncle’s while dancing with her.

Every one in the neighbourhood laughed at the piteously precocious
child, torn by his obsession. Perhaps Estelle laughed too, for she soon
guessed all.

One evening, I remember, there was a party at Madame Gautier’s, and we
played prisoner’s base. The men were bidden choose their partners, and
I was purposely told to choose first. But I dared not, my heart-beats
choked me; I lowered my eyes unable to speak. They were beginning to
tease me when Estelle, smiling down from her beauteous height, caught
my hand, saying:

“Come! I will begin; I choose Monsieur Hector.”

But ah! she laughed!

Does time heal all wounds; do other loves efface the first? Alas, no!
With me time is powerless. Nothing wipes out the memory of my first
love.

I was thirteen when we parted. I was thirty when, returning from Italy,
I passed near St Eynard again. My eyes filled with tears at the sight
of the little white house--the ruined tower. I loved her still!

On reaching home I heard that she was married; but even that could not
cure me. A few days later my mother said:

“Hector, will you take this letter to the coach-office. It is for a
lady who will be in the Vienne diligence. While they change horses ask
the guard for Madame F., give her this letter, and look carefully at
her. You may recognise her, although you have not met for seventeen
years.”

Without suspicion I went on my errand and asked for Madame F. “I am
she, Monsieur,” said a voice that thrilled my heart. “It is Estelle,”
said my heart. Estelle! still lovely, still the nymph, the hamadryad
of Meylan’s green slopes. Still lovely with her proud carriage, her
glorious hair, her dazzling smile. But ah! where were the little pink
shoes? She took the letter. Did she know me? I could not tell, but I
returned home quite upset by the meeting. My mother smiled at me.

“So Némorin has not forgotten his Estelle,” she said. _His_ Estelle!
Mother! mother! was that trick quite fair?

       *       *       *       *       *

With love came music; when I say music I mean composition, for of
course I had long since been able to sing at sight and to play two
instruments, thanks, needless to say, to my father’s teaching.

Rummaging one day in a drawer, I unearthed a flageolet, on which I at
once tried to pick out “Malbrook.” Driven nearly mad by my squeaks, my
father begged me to leave him in peace until he had time to teach me
the proper fingering of the melodious instrument, and the right notes
of the martial song I had pitched on. At the end of two days I was able
to regale the family with my noble tune.

Now, how strikingly this shows my marvellous aptitude for wind
instruments. What a fruitful subject for a born biographer!

My father next taught me to read music, explaining the signs
thoroughly, and soon after he gave me a flute. At this I worked so hard
that in seven or eight months I could play quite fairly.

Wishing to encourage my talent, he persuaded several well-to-do
families of La Côte to join together and engage a music-master from
Lyons. He was successful in getting a second violin, named Imbert, to
leave the Théâtre des Célestins and settle in our outlandish little
town to try and musicalise the inhabitants, on condition that we
guaranteed a certain number of pupils and a fixed salary for conducting
the band of the National Guard.

I improved fast, for I had two lessons a day; having also a pretty
soprano voice I soon developed into a pleasant singer, a bold reader,
and was able to play Drouet’s most intricate flute concertos. My master
had a son a few years older than myself, a clever horn-player, with
whom I became great friends. One day, as I was leaving for Meylan, he
came to see me.

“Were you going without saying good-bye?” he asked. “You may never see
me again.”

His gravity struck me at the moment, but the joy of seeing Meylan and
my glorious _Stella montis_ quite put him out of my head. But on my
return home my friend was gone; he had hanged himself the very day
I left, and no one has ever been able to discover why. It was a sad
home-coming for me!

Among some old books I found d’Alembert’s edition of Rameau’s
_Harmony_, and how many weary hours did I not spend over those laboured
theories, trying vainly to evolve some sense out of the disconnected
ideas. Small wonder that I did not succeed, seeing that one needs to
be a past master of counterpoint and acoustics before one can possibly
grasp the author’s meaning. It is a treatise on harmony for the use of
those only who know all about it already.

However, I thought I could compose, and began by trying arrangements of
trios and quartettes that were simply chaos, without form, cohesion,
or common sense. Then, quite undaunted, I listened carefully to the
quartettes by Pleyel, that our music-lovers performed on Sundays, and
studied Catel’s _Harmony_, which I managed to buy. Suddenly I rent
asunder the veil of the inmost temple, and the mystery of form and of
the sequence of chords stood revealed. I hurriedly wrote a pot-pourri
in six parts on Italian airs, and, as the harmony seemed tolerable, I
was emboldened to compose a quintette for flute, two violins, viola,
and ’cello, which was played by three amateurs, my master, and myself.

This was indeed a triumph though, unfortunately, my father did not seem
as pleased as my other friends. Two months later another quintette was
ready, of which he wished to hear the flute part before we performed it
in public. Like most provincial amateurs, he thought he could judge the
whole by a first-violin part, and at one passage he cried:

“Come now! That is something like music.”

But alas! this elaborate effusion was too much for our
performers--particularly the viola and ’cello--they meandered off at
their own sweet will. Result--confusion. As this happened when I was
twelve and a half, the writers who say I did not know my notes at
twenty are just a little out. Later on I burnt[1] the two quintettes,
but it is strange that, long afterwards in Paris, I used the very
_motif_ that my father liked for my first orchestral piece. It is the
air in A flat for the first violin in the allegro of my overture to the
_Francs-Juges_.




III

MUSIC AND ANATOMY


After the death of his son, poor Imbert went back to Lyons; his place
was taken by Dorant, a man of far higher standing. He was an Alsacian,
and played almost every instrument, but he excelled in clarinet,
’cello, violin, and guitar. My elder sister--who had not a scrap of
musical instinct, and could never read the simplest song, although she
had a charming voice and was fond of music--learnt the guitar with
Dorant and, of course, I must needs share her lessons. But ere long our
master, who was both honest and original, said bluntly to my father:

“Monsieur, I must stop your son’s guitar lessons.”

“But why? Is he rude to you or so lazy that you can do nothing with
him?”

“Certainly not. Only it is simply absurd for me to pretend to teach
anyone who knows as much as I do myself.”

So behold me! Past master of those three noble instruments--flageolet,
flute, and guitar!

Can anyone doubt my heaven-sent genius or that I should be capable of
writing the most majestic orchestral works, worthy of a musical Michael
Angelo! Flute, guitar, flageolet!!! I never was any good at other
instruments. Oh yes! I am wrong, I am not at all bad at the side-drums.

My father would never let me learn the piano--if he had, no doubt I
should have joined the noble army of piano thumpers, just like forty
thousand others. Not wishing me to be a musician, he, I believe, feared
the effect of such an expressive instrument on my sensitive nature.
Sometimes I regret my ignorance, yet, when I think of the ghastly
heap of platitudes for which that unfortunate piano is made the daily
excuse--insipid, shameless productions, that would be impossible if
their perpetrators had to rely, as they ought, on pencil and paper
alone--then I thank the fates for having forced me to compose silently
and freely by saving me from the tyranny of finger-work--that grave of
original thought.

As with most young folks, my early work was downright gloomy, it simply
grovelled in melancholy. Minor keys were rampant. I knew it was a
mistake, but it seemed impossible to escape from the black crape folds
that had enshrouded my soul ever since the Meylan affair.

The natural result of constantly reading Florian’s _Estelle_ was that I
ended by setting parts of that mawky pastoral to music.

The faded old-time poetry comes back to me as I write here in London,
in the pale spring sunshine. Torn as I am by anxiety, worried by
sordid, petty obstacles, by stupid opposition to my plans, it is
strange to recall the sickly-sentimental words of a song I wrote
in despair at leaving the Meylan woods, which were “lighted by the
eyes”--and, may I add, by the little pink slippers of my cruel lady
love.

    “I am going to leave forever
       This dear land and my sweet love,
     So alas! must fond hearts sever,
       As my tears and grief do prove!
     River, that has served so gaily
       To reflect her lovely face,
     Stop your course to tell her, daily,
       I no more shall see this place!”

Although it joined the quintettes in the fire before I went to Paris,
yet in 1829, when I planned my _Symphonie Fantastique_, this little
melody crept humbly back into my mind; it seemed to me to voice so
perfectly the crushing weight of young and hopeless love that I
welcomed it home and enshrined it, without any alteration, for the
first violins in the largo of the opening movement--_Rêveries_.

But the fatal hour of choosing a profession drew rapidly nearer. My
father made no secret of his intention that I should follow in his
footsteps and become a doctor, since this he considered the finest
career in the world; I, on the other hand, made no secret of my opinion
that it was, to me, the most repulsive.

Without knowing exactly what I did want, I was absolutely certain that
I did _not_ want to be tied to the bedsides of sick people, to pass my
days in hospitals and operating theatres, and I determined that no
power on earth should turn me into a doctor.

My resolve was intensified by the lives of Gluck and Haydn that I read
about this time in the “Biographie Universelle.” “How glorious,” I
cried, “to live for Art, to spend one’s life in her beautiful service!”
and then came a mere trifle which threw open the gates of that paradise
for which I had been so blindly groping.

As yet I had never seen a full score; all I knew of printed music was a
few scraps of solfeggi with figured bass or bits of operas with a piano
accompaniment. But one day I stumbled across a piece of paper ruled
with twenty-four staves, and, in a flash, I saw the splendid scope this
would give for all kinds of combinations.

“What orchestration I might get with that!” I said, and from that
minute my music-love became a madness equalled only in force by my
aversion to medicine.

As I dared not tell my parents, it happened that by means of this very
passion for music, my father tried decisive measures to cure me of what
he called my “babyish antipathy” to his loved profession.

Calling me into his study where Munro’s _Anatomy_, with its life-size
pictures of the human framework, lay open on the table, he said:

“See, my boy, I want you to work hard at this. I cannot believe that
you will let unreasoning prejudice stand in the way of my wishes. If
you will do your best, I will order you the very finest flute to be got
in Lyons, with all the new keys.”

What could I say? My father’s gravity, my love and respect for him, the
temptation of the long-coveted flute, were altogether too much for me.
Muttering a strangled “Yes,” I rushed away to throw myself on my bed in
the depths of misery.

Be a doctor! Learn to dissect! Help in horrible operations! Bury
myself in the hideous realities of hospitals, wounds, and death, when I
might tread the clouds with the immortals!--when music and poetry wooed
me with open arms and divine songs.

No, no, no! Such a tragedy _could_ not happen!

Yet it did.

My cousin, A. Robert--now one of the first doctors in Paris--was to
share my father’s lessons. Unluckily he played the violin well, being a
member of my quintette party, and, of course, we spent more time over
music than over osteology. Still he worked so hard at home that he was
always ready with his demonstrations, and I was not. Hence frequent
scoldings and the vials of my father’s wrath poured out on my poor
head. Nevertheless, by hook or by crook, I managed to learn all that my
father could teach me without dissections, and when I was nineteen, I
consented to go with Robert to Paris to embark on a medical career.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before beginning to tell of the deadly conflict that, almost
immediately on my arrival in Paris, I began with ideas, people and
things generally, and which has continued unremittingly up to this day,
I must have a short breathing space.

Moreover, to-day--the 10th April 1848--has been chosen for the great
Chartist demonstration. Perhaps, in a few hours, these two hundred
thousand men will have upset England, as the revolutionists have upset
the rest of Europe, and this last refuge will have failed me. I shall
know soon.

8 P.M.--Chartists are rather a decent sort of
revolutionists. Those powerful orators--big guns--took the chair, and
their mere presence was so convincing that speech was superfluous. The
Chartists quite understood that the moment was not propitious for a
revolution, and they dispersed quietly and in order. My good folks,
you know as much about organising an insurrection as the Italians do
about composing symphonies.

_12th July._--No possibility of writing for the last three months, and
now I am going back to my poor France--mine own country, after all!
I am going to see whether an artist can live there, or how long it
will take him to die amid those ruins beneath which Art lies--crushed,
bleeding, dead!

Farewell, England!

_France, 16th July._--Home once more. Paris has buried her dead. The
paving-stones, torn up for barricades, are replaced; but for how long?

The Faubourg Saint-Antoine is one mass of desolation and ruin; even
the Goddess of Liberty on the Bastille column has a bullet through
her. Trees, maimed and uprooted; houses tottering to a fall; squares,
streets, quays, still palpitating from the riot--all bear witness to
the horrors they have suffered.

Who could think of Art at such a time! Theatres are closed, artists
undone, professors idle, pupils fled, pianists become street musicians,
painters sweep the gutters, and architects mix mortar in the national
work-sheds.

Although the National Assembly has voted a subsidy to the theatres, and
some help to the poorest of the artists, what is that among so many?

Take a first violin of the opera, for instance; his pay is nine hundred
francs a year, which is eked out by private lessons. What chance has he
of saving? Transportation would be a boon to him and his colleagues,
for they might earn a living in America, Sydney, or the Indies. But
even this is denied them. They fought _for_ the Government and against
the insurgents, and being only deserving poor instead of malefactors,
they cannot even claim this last favour--it is reserved for criminals.

Surely this way--in this awful, hideous confusion of just and unjust,
of good and evil, of truth and untruth--this way doth madness lie!

I must write on and try to forget.




IV

PARIS


When Robert and I got to Paris in 1822, I loyally kept my promise to
my father by studying nothing but medicine. My first trial came when
my cousin, telling me that he had bought a _subject_, took me to the
hospital dissecting room.

But the foul air, the grinning heads, the scattered limbs, the bloody
cloaca in which we waded, the swarms of ravenous rats and sparrows
fighting for the debris of poor humanity, overwhelmed me with such a
paroxysm of wild terror that, at one bound, I was through the nearest
window, and tearing home as if Death and the Devil were at my heels.

The following night and day were indescribable. Hell seemed let loose
upon me, and I felt that no power on earth should drag me back to that
Gehenna. The wildest schemes for evading my horrible fate--each madder
than the last--chased each other through my burning brain; but finally,
worn out and despairing, I yielded to Robert’s persuasion, and went
back to the charnel house.

Strange to say, this time I felt nothing but cold, impersonal disgust,
worthy of an old soldier in his fiftieth battle. I actually got to the
point of ferretting in some poor dead creature’s chest for scraps of
lung to feed the sparrow-ghouls of this unsavoury den, and when Robert
said, laughing:

“Hallo! you are getting quite civilised. Giving the birds their meat in
due season!”

I retorted: “And filling all things living with plenteousness,” as I
threw a blade-bone to a wretched famished rat that sat up watching me
with anxious eyes.

Life, however, had some compensations.

Some secret affinity drew me to my anatomy demonstrator, Professor
Amussat, probably because he, like myself, was a man of one idea,
and was as passionately devoted to his science--medicine--as I to
my beloved art, music. His marvellous discoveries have brought him
world-wide fame, but, insatiable searcher after truth as he is, he
takes no rest. He is a genius, and I am honoured in being allowed to
call him friend.

I also enjoyed the chemistry lectures of Gay-Lussac, of Thénard
(physics) and, above all, the literature course of Andrieux, whose
quiet humour was my delight.

Drifting on in this sort of dumb quiescence, I should probably have
gone to swell the disastrous list of commonplace doctors, had I not,
one night, gone to the Opera. It was Salieri’s _Danaïdes_.

The magnificent setting, the blended harmonies of orchestra and chorus,
the sympathetic and beautiful voice of Madame Branchu, the rugged force
of Dérivis, Hypermnestra’s air--which so vividly recalled Gluck’s
style, made familiar to me by the scraps of _Orpheus_ I had found in
my father’s library--all this, intensified by the sad and voluptuous
dance-music of Spontini, sent me up to fever-pitch of excitement and
enthusiasm.

I was like a young man, who, never having seen any boat but the
cockle-shells on the mountain tarns of his homeland, is suddenly put
on board a great three-decker in the open ocean. I could not sleep, of
course, and consequently my next day’s anatomy lesson suffered, and
to Robert’s frenzied expostulations I responded with airs from the
_Danaïdes_, humming lustily as I dissected.

Next week I went to hear Méhul’s _Stratonice_ with Persuis’ ballet
_Nina_. I did not think much of the music, with the exception of the
overture, but I was greatly affected by hearing Vogt play on the _cor
anglais_ the very air sung, years before, by my sister’s friends at my
first communion in the Ursuline chapel. A man sitting near told me that
it was taken from d’Aleyrac’s opera _Nina_.

In spite of this double life of mine and the hours spent in brooding
over my hard fate, I stuck doggedly to my promise for some time longer.
But, hearing that the Conservatoire library, with its wealth of scores,
was open to the public, I could not resist the temptation to go and
learn more of my adored Gluck. This gave the death-blow to my promise;
music claimed me for her own.

I read and re-read, I copied, I learnt Gluck’s scores by heart, I
forgot to eat, drink, or sleep, and when at last I managed to hear
_Iphigenia in Tauris_, I swore that, despite father, mother, relations
and friends, a musician I would be and nothing else.

Without waiting till my courage oozed away, I wrote to my father
telling him of my decision, and begging him not to oppose me. At first
he replied kindly, hoping that I should see the error of my ways; but,
as time went on, he realised that I was not to be persuaded, and our
letters grew more and more acrimonious, until they ended in a perfect
bombardment of mutual passion and recrimination.

In the midst of the storm I started composing, and wrote, amongst other
things, an orchestral cantata on Millevoye’s poem _The Arab Horse_.

I also, in the Conservatoire library, made friends with Gerono, a
pupil of Lesueur, and, to my great joy, he offered to introduce me to
his master, in the hope that I might be allowed to join his harmony
class. Armed with my cantata, and with a three-part canon as a sort of
aide-de-camp, I appeared before him. Lesueur most kindly read through
the cantata carefully, and said: “You have plenty of dramatic force,
plenty of feeling, but you do not know how to write yet. The whole
thing is so crammed with mistakes that it would be simply waste of time
for me to point them out. Get Gerono to teach you harmony--just enough
to make my lectures intelligible--then I will gladly take you as a
pupil.”

Gerono readily agreed, and, in a few weeks, I had mastered Lesueur’s
theory, based on Rameau’s chimera--the resonance of the lower chords,
or what he was pleased to call the bass figure--as if thick strings
were the only vibrating bodies in the world, or rather as if their
vibrations could be taken as the fundamental basis of vibration for all
sonorous bodies!

However, I saw from Gerono’s manner of laying down the law that I must
swallow it whole, since it was religion and must be blindly followed,
or else say good-bye to my chance of joining Lesueur’s class. And such
is the force of example that I ended by believing in it so thoroughly
and honestly that Lesueur considered me one of his most promising and
fervent disciples.

Do not think me ungrateful for his kindliness and for the affection he
shewed me up to his last hour, but, oh! the precious time wasted in
learning and unlearning his mouldy, antediluvian theories.

At one time I really did admire his little oratories, and it grieved
me sorely to find my admiration fading, slowly and surely. Now I can
hardly bear to look at one of his scores; it is to me as the portrait
of a dear friend, long loved, lost and lamented.

When I compare to-day with that far-off time when, regularly each
Sunday, I went to the Tuileries chapel to hear them, how old, how
tired, how bereft of illusions I feel. That was the day of great
enthusiasms, of rich musical passions, of beautiful dreams, of
ineffable, infinite joys.

As I usually arrived early at the Chapel Royal, my master would
spend the time before service began in explaining the meaning of his
composition. It was as well, for the music had no earthly connection
with the words of the mass!

Lesueur inclined mostly to the sweet pastorals of the Old
Testament--idylls of Naomi, Ruth, Rachel--and I shared his taste. The
calm of the unchanging East, the mysterious grandeur of its ruins,
its majestic history, its legends--these were the magnetic pole of my
imagination. He often allowed me to join him in his walks, telling
me of his early struggles, his triumphs and the favour of Napoleon.
He even let me, up to a certain point, discuss his theories, but
we usually ended on our common meeting-ground of Gluck, Virgil and
Napoleon. After these long talks along the edge of the Seine or under
the leafy shade of the Tuileries gardens, I would leave him to take the
solitary walks which had become to him a necessity of daily life.

Some months after I had become his pupil, but before my admission
to the Conservatoire, I took it into my head to write an opera,
and nothing would do but that I must get my witty literary master,
Andrieux, to write me a libretto. I cannot remember what I wrote to
him, but he replied:

    “MONSIEUR,--Your letter interests me greatly. You cannot
    but succeed in the glorious art you have chosen, and it would
    afford me the greatest pleasure to be your collaborateur. But,
    alas! I am too old, my studies and thoughts are turned in quite
    other directions. You would call me an outer barbarian if I told
    you how long it is since I set foot in the Opera. At sixty-four I
    can hardly be expected to write love songs, a requiem would be
    more appropriate. If only you had come into the world thirty years
    earlier, or I thirty years later, we might have worked together.
    With heartiest good wishes,

                               “ANDRIEUX.”

    “_17th June 1823._”

M. Andrieux kindly brought his own letter, and stayed a long time
chatting. As he was leaving he said:

“Ah! I, too, was an ardent lover of Gluck ... and of Piccini,[2] too!!”

This failure discouraged me, so I turned to Gerono, who was something
of a poetaster, and asked him (innocent that I was) to dramatise
_Estelle_ for me. Luckily no one ever heard this lucubration, for my
ditties were a fair match for his words.

This pink-and-white namby-pamby effusion was followed by a dark and
dismal thing called _The Gamester_. I was really quite enamoured of
this sepulchral dirge, which was for a bass voice with orchestral
accompaniment, and I set my heart on getting Dérivis to sing it.

Just then the Theatre-Français advertised a benefit for
Talma--_Athalie_, with Gossec’s choruses. “With a chorus,” said I,
“they must have an orchestra. My scena is not difficult, and if only I
can persuade Talma to put it on the programme Dérivis will certainly
not refuse to sing it.”

Off I posted to Talma, my heart beating to suffocation--unlucky omen!
At the door I began to tremble, and desperate misgivings seized me.
Dared I beard Nero in his own palace? Twice my hand went up to the
bell, twice it dropped, then I turned and fled up the street as hard as
I could pelt.

I was but a half-tamed young savage even then!




V

CHERUBINI


A short time after this M. Masson, choirmaster of St Roch, suggested
that I should write a mass for Innocents’ Day.

He promised me a month’s practice, a hundred picked musicians, and a
still larger chorus. The choir boys of St Roch should copy the parts
carefully, so that that would cost me nothing.

I started gaily. Of course the whole thing was nothing but a
milk-and-water copy of Lesueur, and--equally of course--when I showed
it to him he gave most praise to those parts wherein my imitation was
the closest.

Masson swore by all his gods that the execution should be unrivalled,
the one thing needful being a good conductor, since neither he nor I
was used to handling such _vast masses of sound_. However, Lesueur most
kindly induced Valentino, conductor of the opera, to take the post,
dubious though he was of our vocal and instrumental legions.

The day of the general rehearsal came, and with it our _vast
masses_--twenty choristers (fifteen tenors and five basses), twelve
children, nine violins, one viola, one oboe, one horn, one bassoon.

My rage and despair at this treatment of Valentino--one of the first
conductors in the world--may be imagined.

“It’s all right,” quoth Master Masson, “they will all turn up on the
day.”

Valentino shrugged his shoulders resignedly, raised his baton, and they
started.

In two seconds all was confusion; the parts were one mass of mistakes,
sharps and flats left out, ten-bar pauses omitted, a little further on
thirty bars clean gone.

It was the most appalling muddle ever heard, and I simply writhed in
torment. There was nothing for it but to give up utterly my fond dream
of a grand orchestral performance.

Still, it was not lost time as far as I was concerned, for, in spite
of the shocking execution, I saw where my worst faults lay, and, by
Valentino’s advice, I rewrote the whole mass--he generously promising
to help me when I should be ready for my revenge.

But alas! while I worked my parents heard of the fiasco, and made
another determined onslaught by ridiculing my chosen vocation, and
laughing my hopes to scorn. Those were the bitter dregs of my cup of
shame; I swallowed them and silently persevered.

Unable, for lack of money, to employ professional copyists, and being
justly afraid of amateurs, when my score was finished I wrote out every
part myself. It took me three months. Then, like Robinson Crusoe with
the boat he could not launch, I was at a stand-still. How should I get
it performed? Trust to M. Masson’s musical phalanx? That would be too
idiotic. Appeal to musicians myself? I knew none. Ask the help of the
Chapel Royal? My master had distinctly told me that was impossible, no
doubt because, had he allowed me such a privilege, he would have been
bombarded with similar requests from my fellow-students.

My friend, Humbert Ferrand, came to the rescue with a bold proposal.
Why not ask M. de Châteaubriand to lend me twelve thousand francs? I
believe that, on the principle of it being as well to be hanged for a
sheep as a lamb, I also asked for his influence with the Ministry. Here
is his reply:

                               “PARIS, _31st Dec. 1824_.

    “MONSIEUR,--If I had twelve thousand francs you should
    have them. Neither have I any influence with the ministers. I am
    indeed sorry for your difficulties, for I love art and artists.
    However, it is through trial that success comes, and the day of
    triumph is a thorough compensation for past sufferings. With most
    sincere regret,

                               “CHÂTEAUBRIAND.”



Thus I was completely disheartened, and had no plausible answer to make
when my parents wrote threatening to stop the modest sum that alone
made life in Paris possible.

Fortunately I met, at the opera, a young and clever music-lover,
Augustin de Pons, belonging to a Faubourg St Germain family, who,
stamping with impotent rage, had witnessed my disaster at St Roch. He
was fairly well off then, but, in defiance of his mother, he later
on married a second-rate singer, who left him after long wanderings
through France and Italy.

Entirely ruined he returned to Paris to vegetate by giving singing
lessons. I was able to be of some use to him when I was on the staff of
the _Journal des Débats_, and I greatly wish I could have done more,
for his generous and unasked help was the turning-point of my career,
and I shall never forget it.

Even last year he found life very hard; I tremble to think what may
have become of him since the February revolution took away his pupils.

Seeing me one day in the foyer, he shouted:

“I say, what about your mass? When shall we have another go at it?”

“It is done,” I answered, “but what chance have I of getting it
performed?”

“Chance? Why, confound it all, you have only got to pay the performers.
How much do you want? Twelve or fifteen hundred francs? Two thousand?”

“Hu-s-s-sh, don’t roar so, for heaven’s sake! If you really mean it I
shall be most grateful for twelve hundred francs.”

“All right. Hunt me up to-morrow and we’ll engage the opera chorus and
a real good orchestra. We must give Valentino a good innings this time.”

And we did. The mass was grandly performed at St Roch, and was well
spoken of by the papers. Thus, thanks to that blessed de Pons, I got
my first hearing and my foot in the stirrup--as it were--of all things
most difficult and most important in Paris.

I boldly undertook to conduct the rehearsals of chorus and orchestra
myself, and, with the exception of a slip or two, due to excitement, I
did not do so badly. But alas! how far I was from being an accomplished
conductor, and how much labour and pains it has cost me to become even
what I am.

After the performance, seeing exactly how little my mass was worth,
I took out the Resurrexit--which seemed fairly good--and held an
_auto-da-fé_ of the rest, together with the _Gamester_, _Estelle_, and
the _Passage of the Red Sea_. A calm inquisitorial survey convinced me
of the justice of their fate.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mournful coincidence! After writing these lines I met a friend at the
Opéra Comique, who asked:

“When did you come back?”

“Some weeks ago.”

“Then you know about de Pons? No? He poisoned himself last week. He
said he was tired of living, but I am afraid that, really, he was
unable to live since the Revolution scattered his pupils.”

Horrible! horrible! most horrible!

I must rush out and work off this horror in the fresh air.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lesueur, seeing how well I got on, thought it best for me to become a
regular Conservatoire student and, with the consent of Cherubini, the
director, I was enrolled.

It was a mercy I had not to appear before the formidable author of
_Medea_, for the year before I had put him into one of his white rages
by thwarting him.

Now the Conservatoire had not been run on precisely Puritanic lines,
so, when Cherubini succeeded Perne as director, he thought proper to
begin by making all sorts of vexatious rules. For instance, men must
use only the door into the Faubourg Poissonière and women that into the
Rue Bergère--which were at opposite ends of the building.

One day, knowing nothing of the new rule, I went in by the feminine
door, but was stopped by a porter in the middle of the courtyard and
told to go back and all round the streets to the masculine door. I told
the man I would be hanged if I did, and calmly marched on.

I had been buried in _Alcestis_ for a quarter of an hour, when in burst
Cherubini, looking more wicked and cadaverous and dishevelled even than
usual. With my enemy, the porter, at his heels, he jerked round the
tables, narrowly eyeing each student, and coming at last to a dead stop
in front of me.

“That’s him,” said the porter.

Cherubini was so furious that, for a time, he could not speak, and,
when he did, his Italian accent made the whole thing more comical than
ever--if possible.

“Eh! Eh! Eh!” he stuttered, “so it is you vill come by ze door I vill
not ’ave you?”

“Monsieur, I did not know of the new rule; next time----”

“Next time? Vhat of zis next time? Vhat is it zat you come to do ’ere?”

“To study Gluck, Monsieur, as you see.”

“Gluck! and vhat is it to you ze scores of Gluck? Vhere get you
permission for enter ze library?”

“Monsieur” (I was beginning to lose my temper too), “the scores of
Gluck are the most magnificent dramatic works I know, and I need no
permission to use the library since, from ten to three, it is open to
all.”

“Zen I forbid zat you return.”

“Excuse me, I shall return whenever I choose.”

That made him worse.

“Vha-Vha-Vhat is your name?” he stammered.

“My name, Monsieur, you shall hear some day, but not now.”

“Hotin,” to the porter, “catch ’im and make ’im put in ze prison.”

So off we went, the two--master and servant--hot foot after me round
the tables. We knocked over desks and stools in our headlong flight, to
the amazement of the quiet onlookers, but I dodged them successfully,
crying mockingly as I reached the door:

“You shan’t have either me or my name, and I shall soon be back here
studying Gluck.”

That was my first meeting with Cherubini, and I rather wondered whether
he would remember it when I met him next in a less irregular manner. It
is odd that, twelve years later, in spite of him, I should have been
appointed first curator, then librarian of that very library. As for
Hotin, he is now my devoted slave and a rabid admirer of my music. I
have many other Cherubini stories to tell. Any way, if he chastised me
with whips, I certainly returned the compliment with scorpions.




VI

MY FATHER’S DECISION


The hostility of my people had somewhat died down, thanks to the
success of my mass, but, naturally another reverse started it with
renewed fury.

In the 1826 preliminary examination of candidates for admission to
the Institute I was hopelessly plucked. Of course my father heard of
it, and promptly wrote that, if I persisted in staying on in Paris, my
allowance would stop.

My dear master kindly wrote asking him to reconsider his letter, saying
that my eventual success was certain, since I _oozed music at every
pore_. But, by ill luck, he brought in religious arguments--about the
worst thing he could have done with my free-thinking father, whose
blunt--almost rude--answer could not but wound Lesueur on his most
susceptible side. From the beginning:

“Monsieur, I am an atheist,” the rest may be guessed. The forlorn hope
of gaining my end by personal pleading sent me back to La Côte, where
I was received frostily and left to my own reflections for some days,
during which I wrote to Ferrand:

“No sooner away from the capital than I want to talk to you. My
journey was tiresome as far as Tarare, where I began a conversation
with two young men, whom I had, so far, avoided, thinking they looked
_dilettanti_. They told me they were artists, pupils of Guérin and
Gros, so I told them I was a pupil of Lesueur. They said all sorts of
nice things of him, and one of them began humming a chorus from the
_Danaïdes_.

“The _Danaïdes_!” I cried, “then you are not a mere trifler?”

“Not I,” he answered; “have I not heard Dérivis and Madame Branchu
thirty-four times as Danaüs and Hypermnestra?”

“O-o-oh!” and we fell upon each other’s neck.

“I know Dérivis,” said the other man.

“And I Madame Branchu.”

“Lucky fellows!” I said. “But how is it that, since you are not
professional musicians, you have not caught Rossini fever and turned
your backs on nature and common sense?”

“Well, I suppose it is because, being used to seeking all that is
grandest and best in nature for our pictures, we recognise the same
spirit in Gluck and Salieri, and so turn our backs on fashionable
music.”

“Blessed people! Such as they are alone worthy of being allowed to
listen to _Iphigenia_!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Again my parents returned to the charge, telling me to choose my
profession, since I refused to be a doctor. Again I replied that I
could and would only be a musician and must return to Paris to study.

“Never,” said my father, “you may give up that idea at once.”

I was crushed; with paralysed brain I sank into a torpor from which
nothing roused me. I neither ate nor spoke nor answered when spoken to,
but spent part of the day wandering in the woods and fields and the
rest shut up in my own room. I was mentally and morally dying for want
of air. Early one morning my father came to my bedside:

“Get up and come to my study,” he said, “I want to talk to you.” He was
grave and sad, not angry.

“I have decided, after many sleepless nights, that you shall go back
to Paris, but only for a time. If you should fail on further trial,
I think you will do me the justice to own that I have done all that
can be expected, and will consent to try some other career. You
know my opinion of second-rate poets--every sort of mediocrity is
contemptible--and it would be a deadly humiliation to feel that you
were numbered among the failures of the world.”

Without waiting to hear more, I promised all he wished. “But,” he
continued, “since your mother’s point of view is diametrically opposed
to mine, I desire, in order to avoid trouble, that you do not mention
this, and that you start for Paris secretly.”

But it was impossible to hide this sudden bound from utter despair to
delirious joy and Nanci, my sister, with many promises not to tell,
wormed my secret out of me. Of course she kept it as well as I did, and
by nightfall, everyone, including my mother, knew my plans.

Now it will hardly be believed that there are still people in France
who look upon anyone connected with theatres or theatrical art as
doomed to everlasting perdition, and since, according to French ideas,
music hardly exists outside a theatre, it, too, shares the same fate.

Apropos of this I nearly made Lesueur die of laughing over a reply of
one of my aunts.

We were arguing on this very point, and I said at last:

“Come, Auntie, I believe you would object to have even Racine a member
of your family!”

“Well, Hector,” she said seriously, “we _must_ be respectable before
everything.”

Lesueur insisted that such sentiments could only emanate from an
elderly maiden aunt, in spite of my asseverations that she was young
and as pretty as a flower.

Needless to say, my mother believed I was setting my feet in the broad
road that led not only to destruction in the next world, but to social
ruin in this. I quickly saw by her wrathful face that she knew all, and
did my best to slink out of her way, but it was useless. Trembling with
rage and using “you” instead of the old familiar “thou,” she said:

“Hector, since your father countenances your folly I must speak and
save you from this mortal sin. You shall not go; I forbid it. See, here
I--your mother--kneel at your feet to beg you humbly to give up this
mad design and----”

“Mother! mother!” I interrupted, “I cannot bear it! For pity’s sake
don’t kneel to me.”

But she knelt on, looking up at me as I stood in miserable silence, and
finally she said:

“You refuse, wretched boy? Then go! Drag our honoured name through the
fetid mud of Paris; kill your parents with shame and disgrace. Curses
on you! You are no more my son, and never again will I look upon your
face.”

Could narrow-mindedness towards Art and provincial prejudice go
farther? I truly believe that my hatred of these mediæval doctrines
dates from that horrible day.

But that was not the end of the trial.

My mother hurried off to our little country house, Le Chuzeau, and when
the time of my departure came my father begged me to make one final
effort at reconciliation. We all went to Le Chuzeau, where we found her
reading in the orchard. As we drew near she fled. We waited, we hunted,
my father called her, my sisters and I cried bitterly, but all in vain.
Without a kind word or look from my mother, with her curse upon my
head, I started on my life’s career.




VII

PRIVATION


Once back in Paris, and fairly started in Lesueur’s class, I began to
worry about my debt to de Pons.

It would certainly never be paid off out of my monthly allowance of a
hundred and twenty francs. I therefore got some pupils for singing,
flute and guitar, and, by dint of strict economy, in a few months I
scraped together six hundred francs, with which I hurried off to my
kind creditor.

How could I save out of such a sum? Well, I had a tiny fifth-floor
room at the corner of the Rue de Harley and the Quai des Orfèvres, I
gave up restaurant dinners and contented myself with a meal of dry
bread with prunes, raisins or dates, which cost about fourpence.

As it was summer time I took my dainties, bought at the nearest
grocer’s, and ate them on that little terrace on the Pont Neuf at the
foot of Henry IV.’s statue; watching the while the sun set behind Mont
Valerien, with its exquisite reflections in the murmuring river below,
and pondering over Thomas Moore’s poems, of which I had lately found a
translation.

But de Pons, troubled at my privations--which, since we often met, I
could not hide from him--brought fresh disaster upon me by a piece
of well-meant but fatal interference. He wrote to my father, telling
him everything, and asking for the balance of his debt. Now my father
already repented bitterly his leniency towards me; here had I been five
months in Paris without in the least bettering my position. No doubt he
thought that I had nothing to do but present myself at the Institute to
carry all before me: win the Prix de Rome, write a successful opera,
get the Legion of Honour, and a Government pension, etc., etc.

Instead of this came news of an unpaid debt. It was a blow and
naturally reacted on me.

He sent de Pons his six hundred francs, and told me that, if I refused
to give up my musical wild-goose chase, I must depend on myself alone,
for he would help me no more.

As de Pons was paid, and I had my pupils, I decided to stay in
Paris--my life would be no more frugal than heretofore. I was really
working very steadily at music. Cherubini, of the orderly mind, knowing
I had not gone through the regular Conservatoire mill to get into
Lesueur’s class, said I must go into Reicha’s counterpoint class,
since that should have preceded the former. This, of course, meant
double work.

I had also, most happily, made friends some time before with a young
man named Humbert Ferrand--still one of my closest friends--who had
written the _Francs-Juges_ libretto for me, and in hot haste I was
writing the music.

Both poem and music were refused by the Opera committee and were
shelved, with the exception of the overture; I, however, used up the
best _motifs_ in other ways. Ferrand also wrote a poem on the Greek
Revolution, which at that time fired all our enthusiasm; this too I
arranged. It was influenced entirely by Spontini, and was the means of
giving my innocence its first shock at contact with the world, and of
awakening me rudely to the egotism of even great artists.

Rudolph Kreutzer was then director of the Opera House, where, during
Holy Week, some sacred concerts were to be given. Armed with a letter
of introduction from Monsieur de Larochefoucauld, Minister of Fine
Arts, and with Lesueur’s warm commendations, I hoped to induce Kreutzer
to give my scena.

Alas for youthful illusions!

This great artist--author of the _Death of Abel_, on which I
had written him heaven only knows what nonsense some months
before--received me most rudely.

“My good friend” (he did not know me in the least), he said shortly,
turning his back on me, “we can’t try new things at sacred concerts--no
time to work at them. Lesueur knows that perfectly well.”

With a swelling heart I went away.

The following Sunday Lesueur had it out with him in the Chapel Royal,
where he was first violin. Turning on my master in a temper, he said:

“Confound it all! If we let in all these young folks, what is to become
of us?”

He was at least plain spoken!

Winter came on apace. In working at my opera I had rather neglected my
pupils, and my Pont Neuf dining-room, growing cold and damp, was no
longer suitable for my feasts of Lucullus.

How should I get warm clothes and firewood? Hardly from my lessons at a
franc a piece, since they might stop any day.

Should I write to my father and acknowledge myself beaten, or die
of hunger in Paris? Go back to La Côte to vegetate? Never. The mere
idea filled me with maddening energy, and I resolved to go abroad to
join some orchestra in New York or Mexico, to turn sailor, buccaneer,
savage, anything, rather than give in.

I can’t help my nature. It is about as wise to sit on a gunpowder
barrel to prevent it exploding as it is to cross my will.

I was nearly at my wits’ end when I heard that the Théâtre des
Nouveautés was being opened for vaudeville and comic opera. I tore
off to the manager to ask for a flautist’s place in the orchestra.
All filled! A chorus singer’s? None left, confound it all! However
the manager took my address and promised to let me know if, by any
possibility there should be a vacancy. Some days later came a letter
saying that I might go and be examined at the Freemason’s Hall, Rue
de Grenelle. There I found five or six poor wights in like case with
myself, waiting in sickening anxiety--a weaver, a blacksmith, an
out-of-work actor and a chorister. The management wanted basses, my
voice was nothing but a second-rate baritone; how I prayed that the
examiner might have a deaf ear.

The manager appeared with a musician named Michel, who still belongs to
the Vaudeville orchestra. His fiddle was to be our only accompaniment.

We began. My rivals sang, in grand style, carefully prepared songs,
then came my turn. Our huge manager (appropriately blessed with the
name of St Leger) asked what I had brought.

“I? Why nothing.”

“Then what do you mean to sing?”

“Whatever you like. Haven’t you a score, some singing exercise,
anything?”

“No. And besides”--with resigned contempt--“I don’t suppose you could
sing at sight if we had.”

“Excuse me, I will sing at sight anything you give me.”

“Well, since we have no music, do you know anything by heart?”

“Yes. I know the _Danaïdes_, _Stratonice_, the _Vestal_, _Œdipus_, the
two _Iphigenias_, _Orpheus_, _Armida_----”

“There, that will do! That will do! what a devil of a memory you must
have! Since you are such a prodigy, give us “_Elle m’a prodigué_” from
Sacchini’s _Œdipus_. Can you accompany him, Michel?”

“Certainly. In what key?”

“E flat. Do you want the recitative too?”

“Yes. Let’s have it all.”

And the glorious melody:

    “Antigone alone is left me,”

rolled forth, while the poor listeners, with pitifully down-cast faces,
glanced at each other recognising that, though I might be bad, they
were infinitely worse.

The following day I was engaged at a salary of fifty francs a month.

And this was the result of my parents’ efforts to save me from the
bottomless pit! Instead of a cursed dramatic composer I had become
a damned theatre chorus-singer, excommunicated with bell, book and
candle. Surely my last state was worse than my first!

One success brought others. The smiling skies rained down two new
pupils and a fellow-provincial, Antoine Charbonnel, whom I met when
he came up to study as an apothecary. Neither of us having any money,
we--like Walter in the _Gambler_--cried out together:

“What! no money either? My dear fellow, let’s go into partnership.”

We rented two small rooms in the Rue de la Harpe and, since Antoine
was used to the management of retorts and crucibles, we made him cook.
Every morning we went marketing and I, to his intense disgust, would
insist on bringing back our purchases under my arm without trying to
hide them. Oh, pharmaceutical gentility! it nearly landed us in a
quarrel.

We lived like princes--exiled ones--on thirty francs a month each.
Never before in Paris had I been so comfortable. I began to develop
extravagant ideas, bought a piano--_such_ a thing! it cost a hundred
and ten francs. I knew I could not play it, but I like trying chords
now and then. Besides, I love to be surrounded by musical instruments
and, were I only rich enough, would work in company with a grand piano,
two or three Erard harps, some wind instruments and a whole crowd of
Stradivarius violins and ’cellos.

I decorated my room with framed portraits of my musical gods, and
Antoine, who was as clever as a monkey with his fingers (not a very
good simile, by-the-way, since monkeys only destroy) made endless
little useful things--amongst others a net with which, in spring-time,
he caught quails at Montrouge, to vary our Spartan fare.

But the humour of the whole situation lay in the fact that, although I
was out every evening at the theatre, Antoine never guessed--during
the whole time we lived together--that I had the ill-luck to _tread
the boards_ and, not being exactly proud of my position, I did not see
the force of enlightening him. He supposed I was giving lessons at the
other end of Paris.

It seems as if his silly pride and mine were about on a par. Yet no;
mine was not all foolish vanity. In spite of my parents’ harshness,
for nothing in the world would I have given them the intense pain of
knowing how I gained my living. So I held my tongue and they only heard
of my theatrical career--as did Antoine Charbonnel--some seven or eight
years after it ended, through biographical notices in some of the
papers.




VIII

FAILURE


It was at this time that I wrote the _Francs-Juges_ and, after it,
_Waverley_. Even then, I was so ignorant of the scope of certain
instruments that, having written a solo in D flat for the trombones in
the introduction to the _Francs-Juges_, I got into a sudden panic lest
it should be unplayable.

However one of the trombone players at the opera, to whom I showed it,
set my mind at rest.

“On the contrary,” said he, “D flat is a capital key for the trombone;
that passage ought to be most effective.”

Overjoyed, I went home with my head so high in the air that I could
not look after my feet, whereby I sprained my ankle. I never hear that
thing now without feeling my foot ache; probably other people get the
ache in their heads.

Neither of my masters could help me in the least in orchestration--it
was not in their line. Reicha did certainly know the capacity of most
wind instruments, but I do not think he knew anything of the effect of
grouping them in different ways; besides it had nothing to do with his
department, which was counterpoint and fugue. Even now it is not taught
at the Conservatoire.

However, before being engaged at the Nouveautés I had made the
acquaintance of a friend of Gardel, the well-known ballet-master,
and he often gave me pit tickets for the opera, so that I could go
regularly.

I always took the score and read it carefully during the performance,
so that, in time, I got to know the sound--the voice, as it were--of
each instrument and the part it filled; although, of course, I learnt
nothing of either its mechanism or compass.

Listening so closely, I also found out for myself the intangible bond
between each instrument and true musical expression.

The study of Beethoven, Weber and Spontini and their systems; searching
enquiry into the gifts of each instrument; careful investigation of
rare or unused combinations; the society of _virtuosi_ who kindly
explained to me the powers of their several instruments, and a certain
amount of instinct have done the rest for me.

Reicha’s lectures were wonderfully helpful, his demonstrations being
absolutely clear because he invariably gave the reason for each rule.
A thoroughly open-minded man, he believed in progress, thereby coming
into frequent collision with Cherubini, whose respect for the masters
of harmony was simply slavish.

Still, in composition Reicha kept strictly to rule. Once I asked his
candid opinion on those figures, written entirely on _Amen_ or _Kyrie
eleison_, with which the Requiems of the old masters bristle.

“They are utterly barbarous!” he cried hotly.

“Then, Monsieur, why do you write them?”

“Oh, confound it all! because everyone else does.”

Miseria!

Now Lesueur was more consistent. He considered these monstrosities more
like the vociferations of a horde of drunkards than a sacred chorus,
and he took good care to avoid them. The few found in his works have
not the slightest resemblance to them, and indeed his

    “Quis enarrabit cœlorum gloriam”

is a masterpiece of form, style and dignity.

Those composers who, by writing such abominations, have truckled to
custom, have prostituted their intelligence and unpardonably insulted
their divine muse.

Before coming to France Reicha had been in Bonn with Beethoven, but
I do not think they had much in common. He set great value on his
mathematical studies.

“Thanks to them,” he used to say, “I am master of my mind. To them I
owe it that my vivid imagination has been tamed and brought within
bounds, thereby doubling its power.”

I am not at all sure that his theory was correct. It is quite possible
that his love for intricate and thorny musical problems made him lose
sight of the real aim of music, and that what the eye gained by his
curious and ingenious solution of difficulties the ear did not lose in
melody and true musical expression.

For praise or blame he cared nothing; he lived only to forward his
pupils, on whom he lavished his utmost care and attention.

At first I could see that he found my everlasting questions a perfect
nuisance, but in time he got to like me. His wind instrumental
quintettes were fashionable for a time in Paris; they are interesting
but cold. On the other hand, I remember hearing a magnificent duet,
from his opera _Sappho_, full of fire and passion.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the Conservatoire examinations of 1827 came on I went up again,
and fortunately passed the preliminary, thereby becoming eligible for
the general competition.

The subject set was Orpheus torn by the Bacchantes. I think my version
was fair, but the incompetent pianist who was supposed to do duty for
an orchestra (such is the incredible arrangement at these contests) not
being able to make head or tail of my score, the powers that were--to
wit, Cherubini, Päer, Lesueur, Berton, Boïeldieu and Catel, the musical
section of the Institute--decided that my music was impracticable, and
I was put out of court.

So, after my Kreutzer experience of selfish jealousy, I now had a
sample of wooden-headed sticking to the letter of the law. In thus
taking away my modest chance of distinction did none of them think of
the consequences of driving me to despair like this?

I had got a fortnight’s leave from the Nouveautés for the competition;
when it was over I should have again to take up my burden. But just as
the time expired I fell ill with a quinsy that nearly made an end of me.

Antoine was always trotting after grisettes and left me almost entirely
alone. I believe I should have died without help had I not one night,
in a fit of desperation, stuck a pen-knife into the abscess that choked
me. This somewhat unscientific operation saved me, and I was beginning
to mend when my father--no doubt touched by my steady patience and
perhaps anxious as to my means of livelihood--wrote and restored me my
allowance.

Thanks to this unhoped-for kindness, I gave up chorus-singing--no
small relief, since, apart from the actual bodily fatigue, the idiotic
music I had to suffer from would soon have either given me cholera or
turned me into a drivelling lunatic.

Free from my dreary trade I gave myself up, with redoubled zest, to
my Opera evenings and to the study of dramatic music. I never thought
of instrumental, since the only concerts I had heard were the cold
and mean Opera performances, of which I was not greatly enamoured.
Haydn and Mozart, played by an insufficient orchestra in too large a
building, made about as much effect as if they had been given on the
_plaine de Grenelle_. Beethoven, two of whose symphonies I had read,
seemed a sun indeed, but a sun obscured by heavy clouds. Weber’s name
was unknown to me, while as for Rossini----

The very mention of him and of the fanaticism of fashionable Paris for
him put me in a rage that is not lessened by the obvious fact that he
is the antithesis of Gluck and Spontini. Believing these great masters
perfect, how could I tolerate his puerilities, his unmerciful big
drum, his constant repetition of one form of cadence, his contempt
for great traditions? My prejudice blinded me even to this exquisite
instrumentation of the _Barbiere_ (without the big drum too!) and I
longed to blow up the _Théâtre Italien_ with all its Rossinian audience
and so put an end to it at one fell swoop. When I met one of the tribe
I eyed him with a Shylockian scowl.

“Miscreant!” I growled between my teeth, “would that I might impale
thee on a red-hot iron.”

Time has not changed my opinion, and though I think I can refrain from
blowing up a theatre and impaling people on hot irons, I quite agree
with our great painter, Ingres, who, speaking of some of Rossini’s
work, said:

“It is the music of a vulgar-minded man.”




IX

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA


Here is a picture of one of my opera evenings.

It was a serious business for which I prepared by reading over and
studying whatever was to be given.

My faithful pit friends and I had but one religion, with one god,
Gluck, and I was his high priest. Our fanaticism for our favourites was
only equalled by our frantic hatred of all composers whom we judged to
be without the pale.

Did one of my fellow-worshippers tremble or waver in his faith,
promptly would I drag him off to the opera to retract--even going so
far sometimes as to pay for his ticket. On one special seat would I
place my victim, saying, “Now for pity’s sake don’t move. Nowhere else
can you hear so well--I know because I have tried the right place for
every opera.”

Then I would begin to expound, reading and explaining obscure passages
as I went along; we were always in very good time, first to get the
places we wanted; next, so as not to miss the opening notes of the
overture; lastly, in order to taste to the uttermost the exciting,
thrilling expectation of a great pleasure of which one knows the
realisation will exceed one’s hopes. The gradual filling of the
orchestra--at first as dreary as a stringless harp; the distribution
of the parts--an anxious moment this, for the opera might have been
changed; the joy of reading the hoped-for title on the desks of the
double-basses, which were nearest to us; or the horror of seeing it
was replaced by some wretched little drivel like Rousseau’s _Devin du
Village_--when we would rush out in a body, swearing at all and sundry.

Poor Rousseau! What would he have said if he could have heard our
curses? He, who thought more of his feeble little opera than of all
the masterpieces through which his name lives. How could he foresee
that it would some day be extinguished for ever by a huge powdered
periwig, thrown at the heroine’s feet by some irreverent scoffer.
As it happened, I was present that very night and, naturally, kind
friends credited me with this little unrehearsed effect. I am really
quite innocent, I even remember being quite as angry about it as I was
amused--so I do not think I should or could have done such a thing.
Since that night of joyous memory the poor _Devin_ has appeared no more.

But to go back to my story.

Reassured on the subject of the performance, I continued my preachment,
singing the leading motifs, explaining the orchestration and doing my
best to work my little gang up to a pitch of enthusiasm, to the great
wonderment of our neighbours who--mostly simple country folks--were so
wrought upon by my speeches that they quite expected to be carried away
by their emotions, wherein they were usually grievously disappointed.

I also named each member of the orchestra as he came in and gave a
dissertation on his playing until I was stopped short by the three
knocks behind the scenes. Then we sat with beating hearts awaiting
the signal from Kreutzer or Valentino’s raised baton. After that, no
humming, no beating time on the part of our neighbours. Our rule was
Draconian.

Knowing every note of the score, I would have let myself be chopped
in pieces rather than let the conductor take liberties with it. Wait
quietly and write my expostulations? Not exactly! No half-measures for
me!

There and then I would publicly denounce the sinners and my remarks
went straight home.

For instance, I noticed one day that in _Iphigenia in Tauris_ cymbals
had been added to the Scythian dance, whereas Gluck had only employed
strings, and in the Orestes recitative, the trombones, that come in so
perfectly appropriately, were left out altogether.

I decided that if these barbarisms were repeated I would let them know
it and I lay in wait for my cymbals.

They appeared.

I waited, although boiling over with rage, until the end of the
movement, then, in the moment’s silence that followed, I yelled:

“Who dares play tricks with Gluck and put cymbals where there are none?”

The murmuring around may be imagined. The public, not being
particularly critical, could not conceive why that young idiot in the
pit should get so excited over so little. But it was worse when the
absence of the trombones made itself evident in the recitative.

Again that fatal voice was heard:

“Where are those trombones? This is simply outrageous!”

The astonishment of audience and orchestra were fairly matched by
Valentino’s very natural anger. I heard afterwards that the unlucky
trombones were only obeying orders; their parts were quite correctly
written.

After that night the proper readings were restored, the cymbals were
silent, the trombones spoke; I was serene.

De Pons, who was just as crazy as I on this point, helped me to put
several other points straight but once we went too far and dragged in
the public at our heels.

A violin solo advertised for Baillot was left out. We clamoured
for it furiously, the pit fired up, then the whole house rose and
howled for Baillot. The curtain fell on the confusion, the musicians
fled precipitately, the audience dashed into the orchestra smashing
everything they could lay hands on and only stopping when there was
nothing left to smash.

In vain did I cry:

“Messieurs, messieurs! what are you doing? To break the instruments is
too barbarous. That’s Father Chénié’s glorious double-bass with its
diabolic tone.”

But they were too far gone to listen, and the havoc was complete.

This was the bad side of our unofficial criticism; the good side was
our wild enthusiasm when all went well. How we applauded anything
superlative that no one noticed, such as a fine bass, a happy
modulation, a telling note of the oboe! The public took us for embryo
_claqueurs_, the _claque_ leader, who knew better and whose little
plans were upset, tried to wither us with thunderbolt glances, but we
were bomb-proof.

There is no such enthusiasm in France nowadays, not even in the
Conservatoire, its last remaining stronghold.

Here is the funniest scene I ever remember at the opera. I had swept
off Leon de Boissieux, an unwilling proselyte, to hear _Œdipus_;
however, nothing but billiards appealed to him, and, finding him
utterly impervious to the woes of Antigone and her father, I stepped
over into a seat in front, giving him up in despair.

But he had a music-loving neighbour and this is what I heard, while my
young man was peeling an orange and casting apprehensive glances at the
other man, who was evidently in a state of wild excitement.

“Sir, for pity’s sake, do try to be calm.”

“Impossible! It’s killing me! It is so terrible, so overwhelming!”

“My good man, you will be ill if you go on like this. You really
shouldn’t.”

“Oh! oh! Leave me alone! Oh!”

“Come! come! Do cheer up a bit. Remember it is nothing but a play.
Here, take a piece of my orange.”

“It’s sublime----”

“Yes, it’s Maltese----”

“What glorious art!”

“Don’t say ‘No.’”

“Oh, sir! what music!”

“Yes, it’s not bad.”

By this time the opera had got to the lovely trio, “Sweet Moments,” and
the exquisite delicacy of the simple air overcame me too. I hid my face
in my hands, and tears trickled between my fingers. I might have been
plunged in the depths of woe.

As the trio ended two strong arms lifted me off my seat, nearly
crushing my breast-bone in; the enthusiast, recognising one
fellow-worshipper amongst the cold-blooded lot around, hugged me
furiously, crying:

“B-b-b-by Jove, sir! isn’t it beautiful?”

“Are you a musician?”

“No, but I am as fond of it as if I were.”

Then, regardless of surrounding giggles and of my orange-devouring
neophyte, we exchanged names and addresses in a whisper.

He was an engineer, a mathematician! Where, the devil, will true
musical perception next find a lodging, I wonder? His name was Le
Tessier, but we never met again.




X

WEBER


Into the midst of this stormy student life of mine came the revelation
of Weber, by means of a miserable, distorted version of _Der
Freyschütz_, called _Robin des Bois_, which was performed at the Odéon.
The orchestra was good, the chorus fair, the soloists simply appalling.

One wretched woman alone, Madame Pouilley, by the imperturbably wooden
way in which she went through her part--even that glorious air in the
second act--would have been enough to wreck the whole opera. Small
wonder that it took me a long while to unearth all the beauty of its
hidden treasures.

The first night it was received with hisses and laughter, the next
the audience began to see something in the Huntsmen’s Chorus, and
they let the rest pass. Then they rather fancied the Bridesmaid’s
Chorus and Agatha’s Prayer, half of which was cut out. A glimmering
notion that Max’s great aria was fairly dramatic followed; finally it
burst upon them that the Wolf’s Glen scene was really quite comic; so
all Paris rushed to see this misshapen horror, the Odéon got rich,
and Castilblaze netted a hundred thousand francs for destroying a
masterpiece.

Now I must own frankly that I was getting rather tired of high tragedy,
in spite of my conservatism, and, chopped about as it was, the sweet
wild savour of this woodland pastoral, its dainty grace and tender
melancholy opened to me a new world of music.

I deserted the opera in favour of the Odéon, where I had the _entrée_
to the orchestra, and soon knew _Der Freyschütz_ (according to
Castilblaze) by heart.

More than twenty years have passed since Weber himself passed through
Paris for the first and last time. He was on his way to his London
death-bed, and breathlessly I followed in his track, hoping and longing
to meet him face to face.

One morning Lesueur said:

“Why were you not here five minutes sooner? Weber has been playing our
French scores by heart to me.”

A few hours later in a music shop--

“Whom do you think we had here just now? Why, Weber!”

At the Odéon people were saying:

“Weber has just gone by. He is up in one of the boxes.”

It was maddening--I, alone, never saw him. Unlike Shakespeare’s
apparitions, he was visible to all but one.

Too obscure to dare to write, without a friend who could introduce me,
he passed out of my world.

Ah, why do not the thrice-gifted ones of this world know of the
passionate love and devotion their works inspire! If they could but
divine the suppressed admiration of a few faithful hearts! Would they
not gladly gather these chosen disciples about them to become a bulwark
against the shafts of envy, hatred, malice, and luke-warm tolerance of
which a thoughtless world makes them the target!

Weber was justly angry when he found out how Castilblaze--veterinary
surgeon of music--had butchered his beautiful work, and he published a
complaint before leaving Paris. Castilblaze actually had the audacity
to play the injured innocent, and to say that it was entirely owing to
his adaptation that _Freyschütz_ had succeeded at all!

The wretch!----yet a poor sailor gets fifty lashes for the slightest
insubordination.

Exactly the same thing had been done a few years earlier with Mozart’s
_Magic Flute_. It had been botched into a ghastly _pot-pourri_ by
Lachnith--whom I hereby pillory with Castilblaze--and given as the
_Mysteries of Isis_.

Thus mocked, travestied, deprived of a limb here, an eye there--twisted
and maimed--these two men of genius were introduced to the French
public.

How is it that they put up with these atrocities?

Mozart assassinated by Lachnith.

Weber by Castilblaze--who did the same for Gluck, Mozart, Rossini, and
Beethoven.

Beethoven’s symphonies “corrected” by Fétis, by Kreutzer, and by
Habeneck (of this I have more to say).

Molière and Corneille chopped up by Théâtre Français demons.

Shakespeare “arranged” for performance in England by Colley Cibber! The
list is endless.

No, a thousand times no! No man living has a right to try and destroy
the individuality of another, to force him to adopt a style not his
own, and to give up his natural point of view. If a man be commonplace,
let him remain so; if he be great--a choice spirit set above his
fellows--then, in the name of all the gods, bow humbly before him, and
let him stand erect and alone in his glory.

I know that Garrick improved _Romeo and Juliet_ by putting his
exquisite, pathetic ending in the place of Shakespeare’s; but who are
the miscreants who doctored _King Lear_, _Hamlet_, _The Tempest_,
_Richard the Third_?

That all comes from Garrick’s example. Every mean scribbler thinks he
can give points to Shakespeare.

But to go back to music. At the last sacred concerts, after Kreutzer
had experimentalised by making cuts in one Beethoven symphony, did not
Habeneck follow suit by dropping out several instruments in another,
and M. Costa, in London, try all sorts of weird conclusions with big
drums, ophicleides, and trombones in _Don Giovanni_ and _Figaro_? Well!
if conductors lead the way, who can blame the small fry for following
after?

But is not this the ruin of Art? Ought not we, who love and honour her,
who are jealous for the prescriptive rights of human intellect, to
hound down and annihilate the transgressor; to cry aloud:

“Thy crime is ridiculous. Thy stupidity beneath contempt. Despair and
die! Be thou contemned, be thou derided, be thou accursed! Despair and
die!!!”

       *       *       *       *       *

My devotion to Gluck and Spontini at first somewhat blinded me to the
glories of Mozart. Not only had I a prejudice against Italian, both
language and singers, but in _Don Giovanni_ the composer has written a
passage that I call simply criminal. Doña Anna bewails her fate in a
passage of heart-rending beauty and sorrow, then, right in the middle,
after _Forse un giorno_ comes an impossible piece of buffoonery that I
would give my blood to wipe out.

This and other similar passages that I found in his compositions sent
my admiration for Mozart down below zero. I felt I could not trust
his dramatic instinct, and it was not until years later, when I found
the original score of the _Magic Flute_ instead of its travesty, the
_Mysteries of Isis_, and made acquaintance with the marvellous beauty
of his quartettes and quintettes, and some of his sonatas, that this
Angelic Doctor took his due place in my mind.




XI

HENRIETTE


I cannot go minutely into all the sorrowful details of the great drama
of my life, upon which the curtain rose about this time (1827).

An English company had come over to Paris to play Shakespeare, and
at their first performance--_Hamlet_--I saw in Ophelia the Henriette
Smithson who, five years later, became my wife. The impression made
upon my heart and mind by her marvellous genius was only equalled by
the agitation into which I was plunged by the poetry she so nobly
interpreted.

Shakespeare, coming upon me unawares, struck me down as with a
thunderbolt. His lightning spirit, descending upon me with transcendent
power from the starry heights, opened to me the highest heaven of Art,
lit up its deepest depths, and revealed the best and grandest and
truest that earth can shew.

I realised the paltry meanness of our French view of that mighty brain.
The scales fell from my eyes, I saw, felt, understood, lived; I arose
and walked!

But the shock was overwhelming, and it was long ere I recovered.
Intense, profound melancholy, combined with extreme nerve-exhaustion,
reduced me to a pitiable state of mind and body that only a great
physiologist could diagnose.

A martyr to insomnia, I lost all elasticity of brain, all
concentration, all taste for my best loved studies, and I wandered
aimlessly about the Paris streets and through the country round.[3]

By dint of overtiring my body, I managed, during this wretched time, to
get four spells of death-like sleep or torpor, and four only; one night
in a field near Ville-Juif, one day near Sceaux; a third in the snow
by the frozen Seine near Neuilly, and the last on a table in the Café
Cardinal, where I slept five hours, to the great fright of the waiters,
who dared not touch me lest I should be dead.

Returning one day from this dreary wandering in search of my lost soul,
I noticed Moore’s _Irish Melodies_ open on the table at

    “When he who adores thee,”

and, catching up a pen, I wrote the music to that heart-rending
farewell straight off. It is the _Elégie_ at the end of my set of songs
called _Ireland_. This is the only time I can remember being able to
depict a sentiment while actively under its influence, and seldom have
I gone so direct to the heart of it.

It is a most difficult song both to sing and to accompany. To do it
justice the singer must create his own atmosphere, so must the pianist
and only the most sensitive and artistic souls should attempt it.

For this reason, during all the twenty odd years since it was written,
I have never asked anyone to try it; but one day Alizard picked it up
and began trying it without the piano. Even that upset me so terribly
that I had to beg him to stop. He understood. I know he would have
interpreted it perfectly, and it was more than I could bear. I did
begin to set it to an orchestral accompaniment, but I thought:

“No, this is not for the general public. I could not stand their calm
indifference,” and I burnt the score.

Yet some day it may chance, in England or Germany, to find a niche in
some wounded breast, some quivering soul--in France and Italy it is a
hopeless alien.

Coming away from _Hamlet_, I vowed that never more would I expose
myself to Shakespearian temptation, never more singe my scorched wings
in his flame.

Next morning _Romeo and Juliet_ was placarded. In terror lest the free
list of the Odéon should be suspended by the new management, I tore
round to the box-office and bought a stall. I was done for!

Ah! what a change from the dull grey skies and icy winds of Denmark to
the burning sun, the perfumed nights of Italy! From the melancholy, the
cruel irony, the tears, the mourning, the lowering destiny of Hamlet,
what a transition to the impetuous youthful love, the long-drawn
kisses, the vengeance, the despairing fatal conflict of love and death
in those hapless lovers!

By the third act, half suffocated by my emotion, with the grip of an
iron hand upon my heart, I cried to myself: “I am lost--am lost!”

Knowing no English I could but grope mistily through the fog of a
translation, could only see Shakespeare as in a glass--darkly. The
poetic weft that winds its golden thread in network through those
marvellous creations was invisible to me then; yet, as it was, how much
I learnt!

An English critic has stated in the _Illustrated London News_ that, on
seeing Miss Smithson that night, I said:

“I will marry Juliet and will write my greatest symphony on the play.”

I did both, but I never said anything of the kind. I was in far too
much perturbation to entertain such ambitious dreams. Only through much
tribulation were both ends gained.

After seeing these two plays I had no more difficulty in keeping away
from the theatre. I shuddered at the bare idea of renewing such awful
suffering, and shrank as if from excruciating physical pain.

Months passed in this state of numb despair, my only lucid moments
being dreams of Shakespeare and of Miss Smithson--now the darling of
Paris--and dreary comparisons between her brilliant triumphs and my sad
obscurity.

As I gradually awoke to life again, a plan began to take shape in my
mind. She should hear of me; she should know that I also was an artist;
I would do what, so far, no French artist had ever done--give a concert
entirely of my own works. For this three things were needed--copies,
hall, and performers.

Therefore (this was early in the spring of 1828) I set to work, and,
writing sixteen hours out of twenty-four, I copied every single part
of the pieces I had chosen, which were the overtures to _Waverley_
and the _Francs-Juges_, an aria and trio from the latter, the scena
_Heroic Greek_, and the cantata on the _Death of Orpheus_, that the
Conservatoire committee had judged unplayable.

While copying furiously I saved furiously too, and added some hundreds
of francs to my store, wherewith to pay the chorus; for orchestra I
knew I might count on the friendly help of the staff of the Odéon, with
a sprinkling of assistants from the Opera and the Nouveautés.

My chief difficulty was the hall; it always is in Paris. For the only
suitable one--the Conservatoire--I must have a permit from M. de
Larochefoucauld and also the consent of Cherubini.

The first was easily obtained; not so the second.

At the first mention of my design Cherubini flew in a rage.

“Vant to gif a conchert?” he said, with his usual suavity.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Must ’ave permission of Fine Arts Director first.”

“I have it.”

“M. de Larossefoucauld, ’e consent?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“But me, I not consent. I vill oppose zat you get ze ’all.”

“But, monsieur, you can have no reasonable objection, since the hall is
not engaged for the next fortnight.”

“But I tell to you zat I vill not ’ave zat you gif zis conchert.
Everyone is avay and no profit vill be to you.”

“I expect none. I merely wish to become known.”

“Zere is no necessity zat you become known. And zen for expense you
vill want monee. Vhat ’ave you of monee?”

“Sufficient, monsieur.”

“A-a-ah! But vhat vill you make ’ear at zis conchert?”

“Two overtures, some excerpts from an opera and the _Death of Orpheus_.”

“Zat competition cantata? I vill not ’ave zat! She is bad--bad; she is
impossible to play.”

“You say so, monsieur; I judge differently. That a bad pianist could
not play it is no reason that a good orchestra should not.”

“Zen it is for insult of ze Académie zat you play zis?”

“No, monsieur; it is simply as an experiment. If, as is possible,
the Academy was right in saying my score could not be played, then
certainly the orchestra will not play it. If the Academy was wrong,
people will only say that I made good use of its judgment and have
corrected my score.”

“You can only ’ave your conchert on ze Sunday.”

“Very well, I will take Sunday.”

“But zose poor _employés_--ze doorkeepers--zey ’ave but ze Sunday for
repose zem. Vould you take zeir only rest-day? Zey vill die--zose poor
folks--zey vill die of fatigue.”

“On the contrary, monsieur. These poor folks are delighted at the
chance of earning a few extra francs, and they will not thank you for
depriving them of it.”

“I vill not ’ave it; I vill not! And I write to ze Director zat he
vizdraw permission.”

“Most hearty thanks, monsieur, but M. de Larochefoucauld never breaks
his word. I also shall write and retail our conversation exactly. Then
he will be able to weigh the arguments on both sides.”

I did so, and was afterwards told by one of his secretaries that my
dialogue-letter made the Director laugh till he cried. He was, above
all, touched at Cherubini’s tender consideration for those poor devils
of _employés_ whom I was going to kill with fatigue.

He replied, as any man blessed with commonsense would, repeating his
authorisation and adding:

“You will kindly show this letter to M. Cherubini, who has already
received the necessary _orders_.”

Of course I posted off to the Conservatoire and handed in my letter;
Cherubini read it, turned pale, then yellow, and finally green, then
handed it back without a word.

This was my first Roland for the Oliver he gave me in turning me out of
the library. It was not to be my last.




XII

MY FIRST CONCERT


Having secured orchestra, hall, chorus and parts, I only wanted
soloists and a conductor. Bloc, of the Odéon, kindly accepted the
latter post, and Alexis Dupont, although very unwell, took under his
wing my _Orpheus_, which he had promised to sing before the jury of the
Institute, had it been passed.

But unluckily his hoarseness got so much worse that, when the day came,
he was unable to sing at all, so I was deprived of the wicked joy of
putting on the programme, “_Death of Orpheus_; lyric poem, judged
impossible of execution by the Académie des Beaux Arts, performed May
1828.”

A concert at which most of the executants helped for love and not for
money naturally came off poorly in rehearsals; still, at the final
rehearsal the overtures went fairly well, the _Francs-Juges_ calling
forth warm applause from the orchestra; the finale of the cantata
being even more successful.

In this, after the _Bacchanal_, I made the wind carry on the motif of
Orpheus’ love-song to a strange rushing undertone accompaniment by the
rest of the players, while the dying wail of a far-off voice cries:

“Eurydice! Eurydice! hapless Eurydice!”

The wild sadness of my music-picture affected the whole orchestra, and
they hailed it with wild enthusiasm. I am sorry now that I burnt it, it
was worth keeping for those last pages alone.

With the exception of the _Bacchanal_--the famous piece in which the
Conservatoire pianist got hung up--which was given with magnificent
verve, nothing else in the cantata went very well and, thanks to
Dupont’s illness, it was withdrawn. No doubt Cherubini preferred to say
that it was because the orchestra could not play it.

In this cantata I first noticed how impossible conductors, unused to
grand opera, find it to give way to the capricious and varied time of
the recitative. Bloc, only accustomed to songs interspersed with spoken
dialogue, was quite confused and, in some places, never got right at
all, which made a learned periwigged amateur, who was at rehearsal,
say, as he shook his head at me:

“Give me good old Italian cantatas! Now that’s the music that never
bothers a conductor. It plays itself, it runs alone.”

“Yes,” I said dryly, “just as old donkeys plod round and round their
treadmill.”

That is how I set about making friends.

Much against the grain I replaced _Orpheus_ by the _Resurrexit_ from my
mass, and finally the concert came off.

Duprez, with his sweet, weak voice, did well in the aria; the overtures
and _Resurrexit_ were also a success, but the trio with chorus was a
regular failure.

Not only was the trio miserably sung, but the chorus missed its entry
and never came in at all!

I need hardly say that, after paying expenses, including the chorus
that held its tongue in such a masterly manner, I was completely
cleaned out.

However, the concert was a most useful lesson to me.

Not only did I become known to artists and public, which (_pace_
Cherubini!) was a necessity, but, by doggedly facing the innumerable
difficulties of a composer, I gained most valuable experience.

Several of the papers praised me, and even Fétis--Fétis, who
afterwards[4] ... spoke of me, in a drawing-room, as a coming man.

But what of Miss Smithson?

Alas! I found out that, absorbed in her own engrossing work, of me and
my concert she never heard a whisper!


                       _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “_6th June 1828._--Are you parched with anxiety to know the
    result of my concert? I have only waited in order to send you the
    papers too. Triumphant success! After the applause at the general
    rehearsals of Friday and Saturday I had no more misgivings.

    “Our beloved _Pastoral_ was ruined by the chorus that only found
    out it had not come in just as the whole thing finished. But oh,
    the _Resurrexit_! and oh, the applause! As soon as one round
    finished another began until, being unable to stand it all, I
    doubled up on the kettle-drum and cried hard.

    “Why were you not there, dear friend, faithful champion? I thought
    of and longed for you.

    “At that wild trombone and ophicleide solo in the _Francs-Juges_,
    one of the first violins shouted:

    “‘The rainbow is the bow of your
    violin, the winds play your organ and the seasons beat time!’

    “Whereupon the whole orchestra started applauding a thought of
    which they could not possibly grasp the extent. The drummer by my
    side seized my arm, ejaculating, ‘Superb--sublime,’ while I tore my
    hair and longed to shriek:

    “‘Monstrous! Gigantic! Horrible!’

    “All the opera people were present, and there was no end to
    the congratulations. The most pleased were Habeneck, Dérivis,
    Dupont, Mademoiselle Mori, Hérold, etc. Nothing was lacking to my
    success--not even the criticisms of Panseron and Brugnières, who
    say my style is new and bad, and that such writing is not to be
    encouraged.

    “My dear, dear fellow! in pity send me an opera. How can I write
    without a book? For heaven’s sake finish something!”

    “_June._--All day long I have been tearing about the country,
    leagues upon leagues, and I still live. I feel so lonely! Send me
    something to work at, some bone to gnaw! The country was lovely;
    the people all looked happy. In the flooding light the trees
    rustled softly; but, oh! I was alone--all alone in that wide plain.
    Space, time, oblivion, pain and rage held me in their terrific
    grasp. Struggle wildly as I might, life seemed to escape me; I held
    but a few pitiful fragments in my trembling hands.

    “Oh! the horror, at my age and with my temperament, to have these
    harrowing delusions, and, with them, the miserable persecutions
    of my family! My father has again stopped my allowance; my sister
    writes to-day that he is immovable. Oh, for money! money! Money
    _does_ bring happiness.

    “Still ... my heart beats as if with joy, the blood courses through
    my veins.

    “Bah! I am all right. Joy, hang it! I will have joy!”

                               “_Sunday morning._

    “DEAR FRIEND,--Do not worry over my aberrations--the
    crisis is past. I cannot explain in a letter, which might go
    astray; but I beg you will not breathe a word of my state of mind
    to anyone, it might get round to my father and distress him. All
    that I can do is suffer in silence until time changes my fate.

    “Yesterday’s wild excursion did for me entirely. I can hardly
    move.--_Adieu._”

In an artist’s life sometimes wild tempests succeed each other with
bewildering rapidity, and so it was with me about this time.

Hardly had I recovered from the successive shocks of Weber and
Shakespeare, when above my horizon burst the sun of glorious Beethoven
to melt for me that misty inmost veil of the holiest shrine in music,
as Shakespeare had lifted that of poetry.

To Habeneck, with all his shortcomings, is due the credit of
introducing the master he adored to Paris. In order to found the
Conservatoire concerts, now of world-wide fame, he had to face
opposition, abuse and irony, and to inspire with his own ardour a set
of men who, not being Beethoven enthusiasts, did not see the force of
slaving for poor pay at music that, to them, appeared simply eccentric.

Oh! the nonsense I have heard them airing on those miracles of
inspiration and learning--the symphonies!

Even Lesueur--honest, but devoted to antiquated dogmas--stood aside
with Cherubini, Päer, Kreutzer and Catel, until, one day, I swept him
off to hear the great C minor symphony.

I told him it was his duty to know and appreciate personally such a
notable fact as this revelation of a new and glorious style to us, the
children of the old classicism.

Conscientiously anxious to judge fairly, he would not have me by to
distract him, but shut himself up with strangers at the back of a box.

The symphony over, I hurried round to hear his verdict, and found him,
with flushed face, striding up and down a passage.

“Ouf!” he cried, “let me get out; I must have air! It’s incredible!
Marvellous! It has so upset and bewildered me, that when I wanted to
put on my hat I _couldn’t find my head_. Let me go by myself. I will
see you to-morrow.”

I felt triumphant, and took care to go round next day. We spoke of
nothing but the masterpiece we had heard; yet he seemed to reply to my
ravings rather constrainedly. Still I persevered, until, after dragging
out of him another acknowledgment of his heart-felt appreciation, he
ended, with a curious smile:

“Yes, it’s all very well; but such music ought not to be written.”

“No fear, dear master,” I retorted; “there will never be too much of
it!”

Poor human nature! Poor master! How much regret, envy,
narrow-mindedness; what a dread of the unknown and confession of
incapacity lay beneath your words! “Such music should not be written,”
because the speaker knows instinctively that he himself could never
write it.

Thus do all great men suffer from their contemporaries.

Haydn said much the same of Beethoven, whom he called a _great
pianist_.

Grétry of Mozart, who, he said, had put the statue in the orchestra and
the pedestal on the stage.

Handel, who said his cook was more of a musician than Gluck.

Rossini, who vowed that Weber’s music gave him a stomach-ache.

But the antipathy of the two latter to Gluck and Weber I believe to
be due to quite another reason--a natural inability in these two
comfortable portly gentlemen to understand the point of view of the two
men of heart and sensibility.

This deliberately obstinate attitude of Lesueur towards Beethoven
opened my eyes to the utter worthlessness of his conservative tenets,
and from that moment I left the broad, smooth road wherein he had
guided my footsteps, for a hard and thorny way over hedges and ditches,
hills and valleys. But I could not hurt the old man by my apostasy, so
did my best to dissimulate my change of mind, and he only found it out
long after, on hearing a composition I had never shewn him.

It was just at this time that I set out on my treadmill round as critic
for the papers.

Ferrand, Cazalès and de Carné--well-known political names--agreed
to start a periodical to air their views, which they called _Révue
Européenne_, and Ferrand suggested that I should undertake the musical
correspondence.

“But I can’t write,” I objected; “my prose is simply detestable. And,
besides----”

“No, it is not,” said Ferrand; “have I not got your letters? You will
soon be knocked into shape. Besides, we shall revise what you write
before it is printed. Come along to de Carné and hear all about it.”

What a weapon this writing for the press would be wherewith to
defend truth and beauty in art! So, ignorant of the web of fate I
was throwing around my own shoulders, I smiled innocently and walked
straight into the meshes.

I was likely to be diffident of my writing powers, for, once before,
being furious at the attacks made upon Gluck by the Rossini faction, I
asked M. Michaud, of the _Quotidienne_, to let me reply. He consented,
and I said to myself, gaily:

“Now, you brutes, I have got you; I’ll smite you hip and thigh!”

But I smote no one and nothing.

My utter ignorance of journalism, of the ways of the world, of press
etiquette and my untamed musical passions, landed me in a regular bog.
My article went far beyond the bounds of newspaper warfare, and M.
Michaud’s hair stood on end.

“But, my dear fellow, you know, I cannot possibly publish a thing like
that. You are pulling people’s houses down about their ears. Take it
back and whittle it down a bit.”

But I was too lazy and too disgusted, so there it ended.

This laziness of mine does not apply to composition, which comes
naturally to me. Hour after hour I labour at a score, sometimes for
eight hours at a time; no work is too minute, no pains too great.

Prose, however, is always a burden. Sometimes I go back eight or ten
times to an article for the _Journal des Débats_; even a subject I
like takes me at least two days. And what blots, what scrawls, what
erasures! My first copy is a sight to behold.

Propped up by Ferrand, I wrote for the _Révue Européenne_ appreciative
articles on Beethoven, Gluck and Spontini that made a certain mark, and
thus began my apprenticeship to the difficult and dangerous work that
has taken such a fatal hold on my life.

Never since have I shaken myself free, and strangely diversified have
been its influences on my career both in France and abroad.




XIII

AN ACADEMY EXAMINATION


Torn by my Shakespearian love, which seemed intensified instead of
diverted by the influence of Beethoven; dreamy, unsociable, taciturn to
the verge of moroseness, untidy in dress, unbearable alike to myself
and my friends, I dragged on until June 1828 when, for the third time,
I tempted fate at the Institute and won a second prize.

This was a gold medal of small value, but it carried with it a free
pass to all the lyric theatres, and a fair prospect of the first prize
the following year.

The Prix de Rome was much better worth having. It insured three
thousand francs a year for five years, of which the two first must be
spent in Italy, and the third in Germany. The remaining two might be
passed in Paris, after which the winner was left to sink or swim at his
own sweet will.

This is how the affair was worked until 1865, when the Emperor revised
the statutes. I shall hardly be believed, but, since I won both prizes,
I only state what I know to be absolutely true.

The competition was open to any Frenchman under thirty, who must go
through the preliminary examination, which weeded out all but the most
promising half dozen.

The subject set is always a lyric scena, and by way of finding out
whether the candidates have melody, dramatic force, instrumentation,
and other knowledge necessary for writing such a scena, they are set
down to compose a _vocal fugue_! _Each fugue must be signed._

Next day the musical section of the Academy sits in judgment on
the fugues, and, since some of the signatures are those of the
Academicians’ pupils, this performance is not entirely free from the
charge of partiality.

The successful competitors then have dictated to them the classical
poem on which they are to work. It always begins this way:

    “And now the rosy-fingered dawn;”

or,

    “And now with lustre soft the horizon glows;”

or,

    “And now fair Phœbus’ shining car draws near;”

or,

    “And now with purple pomp the mountains decked.”

Armed with this inspiring effusion the young people are locked up in
their little cells with pens, paper, and piano until their work is done.

Twice a day they are let out to feed, but they may not leave the
Institute building. Everything brought in for their use is carefully
searched lest outside help should be given, yet every day, from six
to eight, they may have visitors and invite their friends to jovial
dinners, at which any amount of assistance--verbal or written--might be
given.

This lasts for twenty-two days, but anyone who has finished sooner is
at liberty to go, leaving his manuscript--_signed as before_--with the
secretary.

Then the grave and reverend signors of the jury assemble,
having added to their number two members of any other section
of the Institute--either engravers, painters, sculptors or
architects--anything, in short, but musicians.

You see, they are so thoroughly competent to judge an art of which they
know nothing.

There they sit and solemnly listen to these scenas boiled down on
a piano. How _could_ anyone profess to judge an orchestral work
like that? It might do for simple old-fashioned music, but nothing
modern--that is, if the composer knows how to marshal the forces at his
command--could by any possibility be rendered on the piano.

Try the Communion March from Cherubini’s great Mass. What becomes
of those long-drawn, mystical wind-notes that fill one’s soul with
religious ecstasy; of those exquisitely interwoven flutes and clarinets
to which the whole effect is due?

They have completely vanished, since the piano can neither hold nor
inflate a sound.

Does it not follow, then, that the piano, by reducing every
tone-character to one dead level, becomes a guillotine whereby the
noblest heads are laid low and mediocrity alone survives?

Well! After this precious performance the prize is awarded, and you
conclude that this is the end of it all?

Not a bit! A week later the whole thirty-five Academicians, painters
and architects and sculptors and engravers on copper and engravers of
medals all turn up to give the final verdict.

They do not shut out the six musicians, although they are going to
judge music.

Again the pianists and the singers go through the compositions, then
round goes the fatal urn, in order that the judgment of the previous
week may be confirmed, modified, or reversed.

Justice compels me to add that the musicians return the compliment by
going to judge the other arts, of which they are as blindly ignorant as
are their colleagues of music.

On the day of the distribution of prizes the chosen cantata is
performed by a full orchestra. It seems just a little late; it might
have been more serviceable to get the orchestra before judgment--seeing
that after this there is no repeal--but the Academy is inquisitive;
it really does wish to know something about the work it has crowned.
Laudable curiosity!

       *       *       *       *       *

In my time there was an old doorkeeper at the Institute whose
indignation at all this procedure was most amusing. It was his duty to
lock us up and let us out, and, being also usher to the Academicians,
he was on the inside track and made some very odd notes.

He had been a cabin boy, which at once enlisted my sympathies; for I
always loved sailors, and can listen imperturbably to their long-winded
yarns; no matter how far they wander from the point I am always ready
with a word to set them right again.

We were the best of friends, Pingard and I. One day, talking of Syria,
he mentioned Volney.

“M. le Comte,” he said, “was so good and easy-going that he always wore
blue woollen stockings.”

But his respect for me became unbounded enthusiasm when I asked whether
he knew Levaillant.

“M. Levaillant!” he cried, “Rather! One day at the Cape I was
sauntering along, whistling, when a big sun-burnt man with a beard
turned round on me. I suppose he guessed I was French from my whistle.
Of course I whistle in French, monsieur.

“‘I say, you young rogue, you’re French?’

“‘I should say I was. Givet is my part of
the country.’

“‘Oh, you _are_ French?’

“‘Yes.’

“And he turned his back and strode off. You see I did know M.
Levaillant!”

The good old boy made such a friend of me that he told me a lot he
would not have dared to repeat to anyone else.

I remember a lively conversation with him the day I got the second
prize.

We had a piece of Tasso set that year, towards the end of which the
Queen of Antioch invokes the god of the Christians she has contemned. I
had the impudence to think that, although the last section was marked
_agitato_, this ought to be a prayer, and I wrote it _andante_. I was
rather pleased with it on the whole.

When I got to the Institute to hear whether the painters and sculptors,
and architects, and engravers of medals, and line-engravers had settled
whether I were a good or bad musician, I ran against Pingard on the
stairs.

“Well?” I asked, “what have they decided?”

“Oh, hallo, Berlioz! I am glad you have come. I was hunting for you.”

“What have I got? Do hurry up! First? Second? Nothing?”

“Oh, do wait; I’m all of a tremble. Will you believe you were only two
votes short of the first prize?”

“The first I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s true, though. The second is all very well, but I call it beastly
that you missed the first by two votes. I am neither a painter, nor a
sculptor, nor an architect, so of course I know nothing about music,
but I’ll be hanged if that _God of the Christians_ of yours didn’t set
my heart gurgling and rumbling to such a tune that if I had met you
that minute I should have--have--stood you a drink!”

“Thanks awfully, Pingard. I admire your taste. But, I say--you have
been on the Coromandel coast?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“To Java?”

“Yes, but----”

“Sumatra?”

“Yes.”

“Borneo?”

“Yes.”

“You are a friend of Levaillant?”

“I should think so. Hand in glove with him.”

“You know Volney?”

“The good Count with the blue woollen stockings? Certainly.”

“Very well, then, you _must_ be a splendid judge of music.”

“But--why? How?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly how or why. But it seems to me that your
title is just as good as that of the gentlemen who do judge. Tell me,
though, what happened.”

“Oh, my goodness! It’s always the same old game. If I had thirty
children, devil take me if one of them should be an artist of any sort.
You see, I am on the inside track, and know how they sell their votes.
It’s nothing but a blessed old shop. See here! Once I heard M. Lethière
asking M. Cherubini for his vote for a pupil.”

“Don’t refuse, my dear fellow,” he said, “we are such old friends, and
my pupil really has talent.”

“No, he shall not have my vote,” Cherubini answered. “He promised my
wife an album of drawings that she wanted badly. He hasn’t even done
her a single tree!”

“That’s rather too bad of you,” said M. Lethière. “I vote for your
people, and you might vote for mine. Look here! I’ll do you the album
myself. I can’t say more than that.”

“Ah, that’s another pair of boots. What is your pupil’s name and
picture? I must not get muddled. Pingard, a pencil and paper!”

“They went off into the window corner and wrote something, then I heard
the musician say--

“All right, I will vote for him.”

“Now, isn’t that disgusting? If I had had a son in the competition and
they had played him a trick like that, wouldn’t it have been enough to
make me chuck myself out of window?”

“Come, Pingard, calm down a bit and tell me about to-day.”

“Well, when M. Dupont had finished singing your cantata they began
writing their verdicts, and I brought the hurn” (Pingard always would
stick in that “h”). “There was a musician close by whispering to an
architect, ‘Don’t give him your vote; he’s no good at all, and never
will be. He is gone on that eccentric creature Beethoven, and we shall
never get him right again.’ ‘Really!’ said the architect. ‘Yet--’
‘Well, ask Cherubini. You will take his word, won’t you? He will tell
you that Beethoven has turned the fellow’s head--’ I beg pardon,” said
Pingard, breaking off his story, “but who is this M. Beethoven? He
doesn’t belong to the Academy, and yet everyone seems to be talking of
him.”

“No, no! He’s a German. Go on.”

“There isn’t much more. When I passed the hurn to the architect I saw
that he gave his vote to No. 4 instead of to you. Suddenly one of the
musicians said, ‘Gentlemen, I think you ought to know that, in the
second part of the score we have just heard, there is an exceedingly
clever and effective piece of orchestration to which the piano cannot
do justice. This ought to be taken into consideration.’ ‘Don’t tell us
a cock-and-bull story like that,’ cried another musician. ‘Your pupil
has broken the rules and written two quick arias instead of one, and he
has put in an extra prayer. We cannot allow rules to be set at nought
like this; it would be establishing a precedent.’ ‘Oh, this is too
ridiculous! What says the secretary?’ ‘I think that we might pardon
a _certain_ amount of licence, and that the jury should distinctly
understand that passage that you say cannot be properly given by the
piano.’ ‘No, no!’ cried Cherubini, ‘it’s all nonsense. There is no such
clever piece of work. It is a regular jumble, and would be abominable
for the orchestra.’

“Then on all sides rose the architects, painters, sculptors, etc.,
saying, ‘Gentlemen, for pity’s sake agree somehow! We can only judge
by what we hear, and if you will not agree--’ And all began to talk at
once, and it became distinctly a bore, so M. Régnault and two others
marched out without voting. They counted the votes. You only got second
prize.”

“Thanks, Pingard, but, I say--they manage things better at the Cape
Academy, don’t they?”

“The Cape? Why, you know they have not got one. Fancy a Hottentot
Academy!”

“Well then, Coromandel?”

“None there.”

“Java?”

“None either.”

“What, no Academy at all in the East? Poor Orientals!”

“They manage to get along pretty well without.”

“What outer barbarians!”

I bade the old usher good-bye, thinking what a blessing it would be if
I could send the Academy to civilise Borneo.

Two years later the Prix de Rome was mine, but poor old Pingard was
dead. It was a pity.

If he had heard my “Burning of the Palace of Sardanapalus” he might
have stood me ... two drinks!




XIV

FAUST--CLEOPATRA


Again I relapsed into my habitual gloom and indolence. Like a dead
invisible planet I circled round that radiant sun that alas! was
doomed so soon to fade into mournful oblivion.

Estelle, star of my dawn, was eclipsed and lost in the noontide
brilliance of her mighty rival--my overwhelming and glorious love.

Although I took care never to pass the theatre, never willingly
to look at Othelia’s portraits in the shop windows, yet still I
wrote--receiving never a sign in reply. My first letters frightened
her, and she bade her maid take her no more.

The company was going to Holland, and its last nights were advertised.
Still I kept away; to see her again was more than I could bear.

However, hearing that she was to act two scenes from _Romeo and Juliet_
with Abbott, for the benefit of Huet, the actor, I had a sudden fancy
to see my own name on a placard beside that of the great actress.

I _might_ be successful under her very eyes!

Full of this childish notion I got permission from the manager and
conductor of the Opéra Comique to add an overture of my own to the
programme.

On going to rehearsal I found the English company just finishing;
broken-hearted Romeo held Juliet in his arms. At sight of the group I
gave a hoarse, despairing cry and wringing my hands wildly, I fled from
the theatre. Juliet saw and heard me; terror-stricken she pointed me
out to those around, begging them to _beware of the gentleman with the
wild eyes_.

An hour later I went back to an empty theatre. The orchestra assembled
and my overture was run through--like a sleep walker I listened,
hearing nothing--when the performers applauded me I wondered vaguely
whether Miss Smithson would like it too! Fool that I was!!

It seems impossible that I could, even then, have been so ignorant
of the world as not to know that, be the overture what it may, at a
benefit, no one in the audience listens. Still less the actors, who
only arrive in time for their turns and trouble themselves not at all
about the music.

My overture was well played, fairly received--but not encored--Miss
Smithson heard nothing of it and left next day for Holland.

By a strange chance (I could never get her to believe it _was_ chance)
I had taken lodgings at 96 Rue de Richelieu, opposite her house. Worn
out, half dead, I lay upon my bed until three the next afternoon; then,
rising, I crawled wearily to the window.

Cruel Fate! At that very minute she came out and stepped into her
carriage _en route_ for Amsterdam.

Was ever misery like mine?

Oh God! my deadly, awful loneliness; my bleeding heart! Could I bear
that leaden weight of anguish, that empty world; that hatred of life;
that shuddering shrinking from impossible death?

Even Shakespeare has not described it; he simply counts it, in
_Hamlet_, the cruellest burden left in life.

Could I bear more?

I ceased to write; my brain grew numb as my suffering increased. One
power alone was left me--to suffer.


                           _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

                               “GRENOBLE, _Sept. 1828_.

    “DEAR FRIEND,--I cannot go to you; come to me at La
    Côte! We will read _Hamlet_ and _Faust_ together, Shakespeare
    and Goethe! Silent friends who know all my misery, who alone can
    fathom my strange wild life. Come, do come! No one here understands
    the passion of genius. The sun blinds them, they think it mere
    extravagance. I have just written a ballad on the King of Thule,
    you shall have it to put in your _Faust_--if you have one.

    “‘Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man
     As e’er my conversation cop’d withal.’

    “I am wretched. Do not be so cruel as not to come!”

                               “PARIS, _November 1828_.[5]

    “Forgive me for not writing sooner; I was so ill, so stupid, it was
    better to wait.

    “La Fontaine might well say: ‘Absence is the greatest of ills.’
    She is gone; this time to Bordeaux and I live no more; or rather I
    live too acutely, for I suffer, hourly, the agonies of death. I can
    hardly drag through my work.

    “You know that I am appointed Superintendent of the Gymnase-Lyrique
    and have to choose or replace the players and to take care of
    instruments, parts and scores.

    “Subscribers are coming in; so are malicious anonymous letters.
    Cherubini sits on the fence wondering whether to help or to hinder
    us, and we go calmly on.

    “I have not seen Châteaubriand; he is in the country, but I will
    speak of your piece directly I do.”

                               “_End of 1828._

    “Do you know M. d’Eckstein, and can you give me an introduction to
    him? I hear that he is connected with a new and powerful paper,[6]
    in which Art is to be given prominence. If I am considered good
    enough, I should like to be musical correspondent. Help me if you
    can.”

Another landmark in my life was the reading of Goethe’s _Faust_; I
could not lay it down, but read and read and read--at table, in the
streets, in the theatres.

Although a prose translation, songs and rhymed pieces were scattered
throughout, and these I set to music, then, without having heard a note
of them, was crazy enough to have them engraved. A few copies, under
the title of _Eight Scenes from Faust_ were sold in Paris, and one fell
into the hands of M. Marx, the great Berlin critic, who wrote most
kindly to me about it. This unexpected encouragement from such a source
gave me real pleasure, particularly as the writer did not dwell too
much on my many and great faults. I know some of the ideas were good,
since I afterwards used them for the _Damnation de Faust_, but I know,
also, how hopelessly crude and badly written they were. As soon as I
realised this, I collected and burnt all the copies I could lay hands
on.

Under Goethe’s influence I wrote my _Symphonie Fantastique_--very
slowly and laboriously in some parts, incredibly quickly and easily in
others. The _Scène aux Champs_ worried me for three weeks, over and
over again I gave it up, but the _Marche au Supplice_ was dashed off in
a single night. Of course they were afterwards touched and retouched.

Bloc, being anxious that my new symphony should be heard, suggested
that I should be allowed to give a concert at the Théâtre des
Nouveautés.

The directors, attracted by the eccentricity of my work, agreed, and I
invited eighty performers to help, in addition to Bloc’s orchestra. On
my making enquiries about accommodation for such an army of executants
the manager replied, with the calm assurance of ignorance:

“Oh, that’s all right. Our property man knows his business.” The day
of rehearsal arrived, and so did my hundred and thirty musicians--with
nowhere to put them!

I just managed to squeeze the violins into the orchestra, and then
arose an uproar that would have driven a calmer man than myself out of
his senses. Cries for chairs, desks, candles, strings, room for the
drums, etc., etc. Scene shifters tore up and down improvising desks and
seats, Bloc and I worked like sixty--but it was all useless; a regular
rout; a passage of the Bérésina.

However Bloc insisted on trying two movements to give the directors
some idea of the whole. So, all in a muddle, we struggled through the
_Ball Scene_ and the _Marche au Supplice_, the latter calling forth
frantic applause.

But my concert never came off. The directors said that “they had no
idea so many arrangements were necessary for a symphony.” Thus my hopes
were dashed, and all for want of a few desks. Since then I always look
into the smallest details for myself.

Wishing to console me for this disappointment, Girard, conductor of the
Théâtre Italien, asked me to write something shorter than my unlucky
symphony, that he could have carefully performed at his theatre.

I therefore wrote a dramatic fantasia with choruses on the _Tempest_,
but no sooner did he see it than he said:

“This is too big for us; it must go to the opera.”

Without loss of time I interviewed M. Lubbert, director of the Royal
Academy. To my relief and delight, he at once agreed to have it played
at a concert for the Artists’ Benevolent Fund that was to take place
shortly. My name was known to him through my Conservatoire concert, and
he had seen notices of me in the papers. He, therefore, believed in
me, put me through no humiliating examination, gave me his word, and
kept it religiously.

    “He was a man, Horatio.”

All went splendidly at rehearsal; Fétis did his best for me, and
everything seemed to smile, when, with my usual luck, an hour before
the concert there broke over Paris the worst storm that had been known
for fifty years. The streets were flooded and practically impassable,
and during the first half of the concert, when my _Tempest_--damned
tempest!--was being played, there were not more than three hundred
people in the place.


                  _Extracts from Letters to_ H. FERRAND.

    “_April 1829._--Here is _Faust_, dear friend. Could you, without
    stinting yourself, lend me another hundred francs to pay the
    printer? I would rather borrow from you than from anyone else; yet
    had you not offered, I should not have dared to ask. Your opera
    (_Franc-Juges_) is splendid. You are indeed a poet! That finale of
    the Bohemians at the end of the first act is a master stroke. I do
    not believe anything so original has ever been done in a libretto
    before. And I repeat, it is magnificent.”

    “_June._--No word from you for three months. Why is it? Does your
    father suppress our letters, or can it be that you, at last,
    believe the slanders you hear of me?

    “I got a pupil, so have managed to pay the printer.

    “I am very happy, life is charming--no pain, no despair, plenty
    of day dreams; to crown all, the _Francs-Juges_ has been refused
    by the Opera Committee! They find it long and obscure, only the
    Bohemian scene pleases them; but Duval thinks it remarkable and
    says there is a future for it.

    “I am going to make an opera like _Freyschütz_ of it, and if I win
    the prize perhaps Spohr (who is not jealous, but is most helpful to
    young musicians) will let me try it at Cassel.

    “No word have I had from you since I spoke of my hopeless love.
    Nothing more has happened. This passion will be my death; how often
    one hears that hope alone keeps love alive--am I not a living proof
    of the contrary?

    “All the English papers ring with her praises; I am unknown! When
    I have written something great, something stupendous, I must go to
    London to have it performed. Oh for success!--success under her
    very eyes.

    “I am writing a life of Beethoven for the _Correspondant_, and
    cannot find a minute for composition--the rest of my time I copy
    out parts. What a life!”

Once more came June, and with it my third attempt on the Prix de Rome.
This time I really did hope, for not only had I gained a second prize,
but I heard that the musical judges thought well of me.

Being over-confident I reasoned (falsely, as it turned out), “Since
they have decided to give me the prize, I need not bother to write
exactly in the style that suits them; I will compose a really artistic
cantata.”

The subject was Cleopatra after Actium. Dying in convulsions, she
invokes the spirits of the Pharaohs, demanding--criminal though she
be--whether she dare claim a place beside them in their mighty tombs.
It was a magnificent theme, and I had often pondered over Juliet’s--

    “But if when I am laid into the tomb,”

which is, at least in terror of approaching death, analogous to the
appeal of the Egyptian Queen.

I was fool enough to head my score with those very words--the
unpardonable sin to my Voltairean judges--and wrote what seemed to me
a weird and dramatic piece, well suited to the words. I afterwards
used it, unchanged, for the _Chorus of Shades_ in _Lelio_; I think it
deserved the prize. But it did not get it. None of the compositions
did. Rather than give it to a “young composer of such revolutionary
tendencies” they withheld it altogether.

Next day I met Boïeldieu, who, on seeing me, said:

“My dear boy, what on earth possessed you? The prize was in your hand,
and you simply threw it away.”

“But, monsieur, I really did my best.”

“That’s just it! Your _best_ is the opposite of your _good_. How could
I possibly approve? I, who like nice gentle music--cradle-music, one
might say.”

“But, monsieur, could an Egyptian queen, passionate, remorseful, and
despairing, die in mortal anguish of body and soul to the sound of
cradle-music?”

“Oh, come! come! I know you have plenty of excuses, but they go for
nothing. You might at least have written gracefully.”

“Gladiators could die gracefully, but not Cleopatra. She had not to die
in public.”

“There! you _will_ exaggerate so! No one expects her to dance a
quadrille. Why need you introduce such odd, queer harmonies into that
invocation? I am not well up in harmony, and I must own that those
outlandish chords of yours are beyond me.”

I bit my lip, not daring to make the obvious reply:

“Is it my fault that you know no harmony?”

“And then,” he went on, “why do you introduce a totally new rhythm in
your accompaniments? I never heard anything like it.”

“I did not understand, monsieur, that we were not to try new modes if
we were fortunate enough to find the right place for them.”

“But, my dear good fellow, Madame Dabadie is a capital musician, yet
one could see it took all her care and talent to get her through.”

“Really, monsieur, I have yet to learn that music can be sung without
either talent or care.”

“Well, well! you will have the last word. But do be warned for next
year. Come and see me and we will talk it over like _French gentlemen_.”

And, chuckling over the point he had made (for his last words were a
quotation from his own _Jean de Paris_), he walked off.

Yes, Boïeldieu was right. The Parisians liked soothing music, even
for the most dramatic and harrowing situations. Pretty, innocent,
gentlemanly music, pleasant and making no demand upon one’s deepest
feelings.

Later on they wanted something different, and now they do not know what
they want, or rather they want nothing at all. Ah me! what was the good
God thinking of when He dropped me down in this pleasant land of France?

Yet I love her whenever I can forget her idiotic politics. How gay
she is, how dainty in wit, how bright in retort--how she boasts and
swaggers and humbugs, royally and republicanly! I am not sure, though,
that this last _is_ amusing.




XV

A NEW LOVE


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “_July 1829._--I am sorry I did not send your music before, but
    I may as well own that I am short of money. My father has taken
    another whim and sends me nothing, so I could not afford the
    thirty or forty francs for the copying. I could not do it myself,
    as I was shut up in the Institute. That abominable but necessary
    competition! My only chance of getting the filthy lucre, without
    which life is impossible.

    ‘Auri sacra fames quid non mortalia pectora cogis!’

    My father would not even pay my expenses in the Institute. M.
    Lesueur did so for me.”

    “_August._--Forgive my negligence. My only excuses are the Academy
    competition and the new pangs of my despised love. My heart can
    be likened only to a virgin forest, struck and kindled by the
    thunderbolt; now and again the fire smoulders, then comes the
    whirlwind, and in a second the trees are a mass of living, hissing
    flame and all is death and desolation.

    “I will spare you a description of the latest blows.

    “That shameful competition!

    “Boïeldieu says I go further than Beethoven, and he cannot even
    understand Beethoven; and that, to write like that, _I must have
    the most hearty contempt for the Academicians!_ Auber told me much
    the same thing, and added, ‘You hate the commonplace, but you need
    never be afraid of writing platitudes. The best advice I can give
    you is to write as insipidly as you can, and when you have got
    something that sounds to you horribly flat, _you will have just
    what they want!_’

    “That is all very well, but when I go writing for butchers and
    bakers and candlestick-makers I certainly shall not go to the
    passion-haunted, crime-stained Queen of Egypt for a text.”


                   _To_ FERDINAND HILLER.

    “1829.--What is this overwhelming emotion, this intense power of
    suffering that is killing me? Ask your guardian angel, that bright
    spirit that has opened to you the gate of Heaven. Oh, my friend!
    can you believe that I have burnt the manuscript of my prose elegy?
    I have Ophelia ever before me; her tears, her tragic voice; the
    fire of her glorious eyes burns into my soul--I am so miserable, so
    inexpressibly unhappy, oh, my friend!

    “I seem to see Beethoven looking down on me with calm severity;
    Spontini--safely cured of woes like mine--with his pitying
    indulgent smile; Weber from the Elysian Fields, whispers consoling
    words into my ear....

    “Mad, mad, mad! is this sense for a student of the Institute; a
    domino-player of the Café de la Régence?

    “Nay, I _will_ live--live for music--the highest thing in life
    except true love! Both make me utterly miserable but at least I
    shall have lived! Lived, it is true, by suffering, by passion, by
    lamentation and by tears--yet I _shall_ have lived! Dear Ferdinand!
    a year ago to-day I saw _her_ for the last time. Is there for us a
    meeting in another world?

    “Ah, me! miserable! Alone! cursed with imagination beyond my
    physical strength, torn by unbounded, unsatisfied love!--still, I
    have known the great ones of the heaven of music; I have laughed
    as I basked in the radiance of their glory! Immortals, stretch out
    your hands, raise me to the shelter of your golden clouds that I
    may be at rest!

    “Voice of Reason:

    “‘Peace, fool! ere many years have
    passed your pain will be no more.’

                   Henriette Smithson and
Hector Berlioz

    will rest in the oblivion of the grave and other unfortunates will
    also suffer and die!” ...


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.

    “_November 1829._--Oh Ferrand! Ferrand! why were you not here for
    my concert? Yesterday I was so ill that I could not crawl; to-day
    the fire of hell that inspired my _Francs-Juges_ overture, courses
    through my veins.

    “All my heart, my passion, my love are in that overture.

    “After the crowd had dispersed the performers waited for me in the
    courtyard and greeted me with wild applause. At the Opera in the
    evening it was the same thing--a regular ferment!

    “My friend, my friend! Had you but been there!

    “But it was more than I could stand, and now I am a prey to the
    most awful depression and despair; tears choke me, I long to die.

    “After all, there will be a small profit--about a hundred and fifty
    francs, of which I must give two-thirds to Gounet, who so kindly
    lent it me--I think he is more in need than you. But my debt to you
    troubles me, and as soon as I can get together enough to be worth
    sending, you shall have it.” ...

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_December._--I am bored! wretched! That is nothing new, but I get
    more and more soul-weary, more utterly bored as time goes on. I
    devour time as ducks gobble water, in order to live and, like the
    ducks, I find nothing but a few scrubby insects for nourishment.
    What will become of me! What shall I do!”


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.

    “_January 1830._--I do not know where to turn for money. I have
    only two pupils, they bring me in forty-four francs a month; I
    still owe you money besides the hundred francs to Gounet--this
    eternal penury, these constant debts, even to such old and tried
    friends as you, weigh on me terribly. Then again your father still
    nurses the mistaken idea that I am a gambler--I, who never touch a
    card and have never set foot in a gaming house--and the thought
    that he disapproves of our friendship nearly drives me mad. For
    pity’s sake, write soon!”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_February._--Again, without warning and without reason, my
    ill-starred passion wakes. She is in London, yet I feel her
    presence ever with me. I listen to the beating of my heart, it is
    like a sledge-hammer, every nerve in my body quivers with pain.

    “Woe upon her! Could she but dream of the poetry, the infinite
    bliss of such love as mine, she would fly to my arms, even though
    my embrace should be her death.

    “I was just going to begin my great symphony (_Episode in an
    Artist’s Life_) to depict the course of this infernal love of
    mine--but I can write nothing.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_May._--Your letter comforts me, dear friend, how good it is to
    be blessed with a friend such as you! A man of heart, of soul, of
    imagination! How rare that kindred spirits such as ours should meet
    and sympathise.

    “Words fail to tell the joy your affection gives me. You need not
    fear for me with Henriette Smithson. I am no longer in danger
    in that quarter; I pity and despise her. She is nothing but a
    commonplace woman with an instinct for expressing the tortures
    of the soul that she has never felt; she is quite incapable of
    appreciating the noble, all-devouring love with which I honoured
    her.

    “The rehearsals of my symphony begin in three days; all the parts
    are copied--there are two thousand three hundred pages. I hope to
    goodness we shall have good receipts to pay for it all. The concert
    takes place on the 30th May. And you alone will not be there! Even
    my father wishes to come. Ah, my symphony!

    “I wish the theatre people would somehow plot to get _her_
    there--that wretched woman! But she certainly would not go if she
    read my programme. She could not but recognise herself. What will
    people say? My story is so well known.”

At this time a new influence came into my life which, for a time,
eclipsed my Shakespearian passion.

Hiller, the German composer-pianist, whom I had known intimately ever
since his arrival in Paris, fell violently in love with Marie Moke, a
beautiful and talented girl, who, later on, became one of our greatest
pianists.

Her interest in me was aroused by Hiller’s account of my mental
sufferings, and--so Fate willed--we were thrown much together at a
boarding-school where we both gave lessons--she on the piano and I
on--the guitar! Odd though it be, I still figure in the prospectus of
Madame d’Aubré as professor of that noble instrument.

Meeting Mademoiselle Moke constantly, her dainty beauty and bewitching
mockery of my high-tragedy airs and dismal visage soon turned my
thoughts from my absorbing passion and won her a shrine in my heart.
She was but eighteen!

Hiller, poor fellow, behaved admirably. He recognised that it was Fate,
not treachery on my part and, heart-broken as he was, he wished me
every happiness and left for Frankfort.

This is all I need say of this violent interlude that, by stirring my
senses, turned me aside for a while from the mighty love that really
held my heart. In my Italian journey I will tell of the dramatic
sequel. Mademoiselle Moke nearly proved the proverb that it is not well
to play with fire!

       *       *       *       *       *

In 1830 the Competition took place later than usual--on the 15th July.
For the fifth time I went up, firmly resolved, if I should fail, to go
no more.

As I finished my cantata the Revolution broke out and the Institute was
a curious sight. Grape shot rattled on the barred doors, cannon balls
shook the façade, women screamed and, in the momentary pauses, the
interrupted swallows took up their sweet, shrill cry. I hurried over
the last pages of my cantata, and on the 29th was free to maraud about
the streets, pistol in hand, with the “blessed riffraff” as Barbier
said.

I shall never forget the look of Paris during those few days. The
frantic bravery of the gutter-snipe, the enthusiasm of the men, the
calm, sad resignation of the Swiss and Royal Guards, the odd pride of
the mob in being “masters of Paris and looting nothing.” One day, just
after this harmonious revolution, I had a strange musical shock.

Going through the Palais Royal, I heard some young men singing a
familiar air; it was my own:

    “Forget not our wounded companions, who stood
        In the day of distress by our side;
     While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood
        They stirred not, but conquered and died.”[7]

Not used to such fame I, in great delight, asked the leader whether I
might join in, and incontinently began a hot argument with him as to
the time at which it should be taken. Of course I was not recognised.

As we sang, three of the National Guard handed round their shakos to
collect money for the wounded and there was a welcome deluge of five
franc pieces. The crowd increased and our breathing space became less
and less; we should have ended in being smothered had not a kindly
haberdasher asked us up to her first floor windows, that looked out
upon the covered gallery, whence we could rain down our music upon
the crowd below, as the Pope does his blessing from the balcony of St
Peter’s.

First we gave them the _Marseillaise_. At the opening bar the noisy
crowd stood motionless; at the end of the second verse the same
silence; even so with the third. Irate at their apparent coldness, I
roared out--

“Confound it all! SING!”

And they sang.

Remember, those four or five thousand tightly packed people were--men,
women and children--hot from the barricades, inflamed with lust for
combat, and imagine how their

    “Aux armes, citoyens!”

rolled out.

Aghast at the explosion we had provoked, our little band stood silent
as birds after a thunder clap.

I, literally not metaphorically, sank on the floor.

Some time before this I had arranged the _Marseillaise_ for full
orchestra and double chorus and had dedicated it to Rouget de Lisle,
who wrote inviting me to go and see him at Choisy, as he had several
proposals to make to me.

Unfortunately I could not go then, as I was on the point of starting
for Italy, and he died before I returned. I only heard much later that
he had written many fine songs besides the _Marseillaise_ and had also
a libretto for _Othello_ put aside; it is probably this that he wished
to discuss with me.

As soon as peace was patched up and Louis Philippe introduced by
Lafayette as “the best of republics” the Academy started work once more.

And as the judges, thanks to a piece which I have since burnt, believed
me reclaimed from my heresies, they gave me the first prize. Although,
in former years, I had been greatly disappointed at not getting it I
was not in the least pleased when I did.

Of course I appreciated its advantages; my parents’ pride, the kudos,
the freedom for five years from money troubles--yet, knowing the system
on which prizes were awarded, could I feel any proper pride in my
success?

Two months after came the distribution of prizes and the performance of
the successful work. It was all very hackneyed.

Every year the same musicians perform pieces turned out on the same
pattern; the same prizes, awarded with the same discrimination, are
handed over with the same ceremony. Every year on the same day, at the
same time, standing on the same step of the same staircase, the same
Academician repeats the same words to the winner.

Day, first Saturday in October; time, four in the afternoon; step, the
third; the Academician--we all know who.

Then comes the performance with full orchestra (in my case it was
not quite full, for there was only a clarinet and a half, the old
boy who played the first--having only one tooth and being asthmatic
besides--being only able to squeeze out a note here and there). The
conductor raises his baton----

The sun rises; ’cello solo, gentle crescendo.

The little birds wake; flute solo, violin tremolo.

The little rills gurgle; alto solo.

The little lambs bleat; oboe solo.

And as the crescendo goes on and the little birds and little brooks and
little beasts finish their performance, one suddenly discovers that it
is noon; then follow the successive airs up to the third, with which
the hero usually expires and the audience once more breathes freely.

Then the secretary, holding in one hand the artificial laurel wreath
and in the other the gold medal, worth enough to keep the recipient
until he leaves for Rome (in point of fact, I have proved that it is
worth exactly a hundred and sixty francs) pompously enunciates the name
of the author.

The laureate rises,

    “His smooth, chaste forehead, newly shorn,
     is wreathed with modest blushes.”

He embraces the secretary--faint applause. He embraces his master,
seated close by--more applause. Next come his mother, his sisters, his
cousins, and his aunts to the tune of more applause; then his fiancée,
after which--treading on people’s toes and tearing ladies’ dresses in
the blind confusion of his headlong career--he regains his seat, bathed
in perspiration. Loud applause and laughter.

This is the crowning moment, and I know lots of people who go for
nothing but the fun of it.

I do not say this in bitterness of spirit, although, when my turn came,
neither father nor mother, nor fiancée[8] were there to congratulate
me. My master was ill, my parents estranged, my mistress--ah!

So I only embraced the secretary, and I do not fancy that my “modest
blushes” were noticed because, instead of being “newly shorn,” my
forehead was buried in a shock of long red hair, which, in conjunction
with certain other points in my physiognomy certainly earned me a place
in the owl tribe.

Besides, I was not in at all an embrace-inspiring humour that day.
Truth obliges me to confess that I was in a howling, rampant rage.

I must go back a little and explain why.

The subject set was the _Last Night of Sardanapalus_, and it ended with
his gathering his most beautiful slaves around him and, with them,
mounting the funeral pyre.

I was just going to write a symphonic description of the scene--the
cries of the unwilling victims; the king’s proud defiance of the
flames, the crash of the falling palace--when I suddenly bethought me
that that way lay suicide--since the piano, as usual, would be the only
means of interpretation.

I therefore waited and, as soon as the prize was awarded and I knew I
could not be deprived of it, I wrote my CONFLAGRATION.

At the final orchestral rehearsal it made such a sensation that several
of the Academicians came up and congratulated me most warmly, without
a trace of pique at the trick I had played upon them. The rumour of it
having gone abroad, the hall was packed--for I found I had already made
a sort of bizarre reputation.

Not feeling particularly confident in the powers of Grasset, the
conductor, I stood close beside him, manuscript in hand, while Madame
Malibran, who had been unable to find a seat in the hall, sat on a
stool at my elbow between two double-basses. That was the last time I
ever saw her.

All went smoothly; Sardanapalus assembled his slaves, the fire was
kindled, everyone listened intently, and those who had been at
rehearsal whispered:

“Now it’s coming. Just listen. It’s simply wonderful!”

Curses and excommunications upon those musicians who do not count their
rests!! That damned horn, that should have given the signal to the
side-drums, never came in. The drums were afraid to begin, so gave no
signal to the cymbals, nor the cymbals to the big-drum.

The violins went wobbling on with their futile tremolo and my fire went
out without one crackle!

Only a composer who has been through a like experience can appreciate
my fury.

Giving vent to a wild yell of rage, I flung my score smash into the
middle of the band and knocked over two desks. Madame Malibran jumped
as if she had been shot, and the whole place was in an uproar.

It was a regular catastrophe--worst and cruellest of all I had
hitherto borne; but alas! by no means the last.




XVI

LISZT


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

                               “_24th July 1830._

    “DEAR FRIEND,--All that the most tender delicate love can
    give is mine. My exquisite sylph, my Ariel, loves me more than ever
    and her mother says that, had she read of love like mine, she could
    not have believed it.

    “I am shut up in the Institute _for the last time_, for the prize
    _shall_ be mine this year, our happiness hangs on it. Every other
    day Madame Moke sends her maid with messages. Can you credit it,
    Humbert? This angel, with the finest talent in Europe, is mine! I
    hear that M. de Noailles, in whom her mother believes greatly, has
    pleaded my cause, despite my want of money. If only you could hear
    my Camille _thinking aloud_ in the divine works of Beethoven and
    Weber, you would lose your head as I do.”

                               “_23rd August 1830._

    “I have gained the Prix de Rome. It was awarded unanimously--a
    thing that has never been known before. What a joy it is to be
    successful when it gives pleasure to those one adores!

    “My sweet Ariel was dying of anxiety when I took her the news, her
    dainty wings were all ruffled until I smoothed them with a word.
    Even her mother, who does not look too favourably on our love, was
    touched to tears.

    “On the 1st November there is to be a concert at the Théâtre
    Italien. The new conductor, Girard, whom I know well, has asked me
    to write him an overture for it. I am going to take Shakespeare’s
    _Tempest_; it will be quite a new style of thing.

    “My great concert with the _Symphonie Fantastique_ is to be on the
    14th November, but I must have a _theatrical_ success; Camilla’s
    parents insist upon that as a condition of our marriage. I hope I
    shall succeed.

    “I do not want to go to Italy. I shall go and ask the King to let
    me off. It is a ridiculous journey for me to take, and I might just
    as well be allowed my scholarship in Paris.

    “As soon as I have collected the money you so kindly lent me, you
    shall have it. Good-bye, good-bye. I have just come from Madame
    Moke’s, from touching the hand of my adored Camille, that is why
    mine trembles and my writing is so bad. Yet to-day she has not
    played me either Beethoven or Weber.

    “_P.S._--That wretched Smithson girl is still here. I have not seen
    her.”


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “_October 1830._--You will be glad to hear that I am to be heard
    at the Opera. All thanks to Camille! In her slender form, witching
    grace, and musical genius I found Ariel personified. I have planned
    a tremendous overture, which I have submitted to the director.
    Ariel! Ariel! Camille! I bless, I adore, I love thee more than poor
    language can express. Give me a hundred musicians, a hundred and
    fifty voices, then can I tell thee all!

           *       *       *       *       *

    “That poor Ophelia comes again and again to my mind. She has lost
    more than six thousand francs in the Opéra Comique venture. She is
    still here, and met me the other day quite calmly. I was utterly
    miserable the whole evening, and went and told Ariel, who laughed
    at me tenderly.”

In spite of all my eloquence, I could not get out of that tiresome
journey to Rome. But I would not leave Paris without having
_Sardanapalus_ performed properly, and for the third time my artist
friends most generously offered me their aid, and Habeneck consented to
conduct.

The day before the concert Liszt came to see me. We had not, so far,
met. We began talking of _Faust_, which he had not read, but which he
afterwards got to love as I did. We were so thoroughly sympathetic to
each other that, from that day, our friendship neither faltered nor
waned. At my concert everyone noticed his enthusiasm and vociferous
applause.

As my work is exceedingly complicated, it is not surprising that the
execution was by no means perfect; yet some parts of the Symphony made
a sensation. The _Scène aux Champs_ fell quite flat, and, on the advice
of Ferdinand Hiller, I afterwards entirely rewrote it.

_Sardanapalus_ was well done, and the _Conflagration_ came off
magnificently. It raised a conflagration in Paris too, in the shape of
a war of musicians and critics.

Naturally the younger men--particularly those with that sixth sense,
artistic instinct--were on my side, but Cherubini and his gang were
wild with rage.

He happened to pass the concert-room doors as people were going in, and
a friend stopped him, asking:

“Are you not coming to hear Berlioz’s new thing?”

“I need not zat I go hear how sings should not be done,” he replied.

He was much worse after the concert, and sent for me.

“You go soon,” he said.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“It vill be zat you are cross off ze register of Conservatoire, zat
your studies are finish. But it seem to me zat you should make visit to
me. One goes not out of Conservatoire like out of a stable.”

I very nearly said:

“Why not, since we are treated like horses?” but luckily had the good
sense merely to say that I had not the slightest intention of leaving
Paris without saying farewell to him.

So to Rome, _nolens volens_, I had to go, useless as it seemed.

The Roman Academy may be of service to painters and sculptors, but,
as far as music is concerned, it is lost time, considering the state
of music in Italy. Neither is the life led by the students exactly
conducive to study and progress.

Usually the five or six laureates arrange to travel in company, and
share expenses. A coach-driver agrees, for a modest sum, to take charge
of this cargo of great men, and dump it down in Italy. As he never
changes horses it takes a long time, and must be rather amusing.

I did not try it, as I had to stay in Paris for various reasons
till the middle of January and then wished to go round by La Côte
Saint-André--where my laurel wreath earned me a warm welcome--after
which, alone, and dreary, I turned my face towards Italy.


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “_November 1830._--Just a few lines in haste to tell you that
    I am giving a gigantic concert at the Conservatoire--the
    _Francs-Juges_ overture, the _Sacred Song_ and _Warrior’s Song_
    from the Melodies, and _Sardanapalus_ with one hundred performers
    for the CONFLAGRATION, and last of all, the _Symphonie
    Fantastique_.

    “Come, oh, do come. It will be terrible. Habeneck conducts. The
    _Tempest_ is to be played a second time at the Opera. It is new,
    fresh, strange, grand, sweet, tender, surprising. Fétis wrote two
    splendid articles on it for the _Revue Musicale_. Some one said
    to him the other day that I was possessed of a devil. ‘The devil
    may possess his body, but, by Jove! a god possesses his head,’ he
    retorted.

    “_December._--You really must come; I had a frantic success. They
    actually encored the _Marche au Supplice_. I am mad! mad! My
    marriage is fixed for Easter 1832, on condition that I do not lose
    my pension, and that I go to Italy for a year. My blessed symphony
    has done the deed, and won this concession from Camille’s mother.

    “My guardian angel! for months I shall not see her. Why cannot
    I--cradled by the wild north wind upon some desolate heath--fall
    into the eternal sleep with her arms around me!”


                   _To_ FERDINAND HILLER.


    “LA CÔTE SAINT-ANDRÉ, _January 1831_.--I am at home once
    more, deluged with compliments, caresses, and tender solicitude
    by my family, yet I am miserable; my heart barely beats, the
    oppression of my soul suffocates me. My parents understand and
    forgive.

    “I have been to Grenoble, where I spent half my time in bed, the
    other half in calling upon people who bored me to extinction. On my
    return I found awaiting me my longed-for letter from Paris.

    “Now comes yours, to spoil all! Devil take you! Was it necessary
    to tell me that I am luxuriating in despair, that _no one_ cares
    twopence for me, least of all the people for whom I am pining?

           *       *       *       *       *

    “In the first place, I am not pining for _people_, but for one
    person; in the second, if you have your reasons for judging
    her severely I have mine for believing in her implicitly, and I
    understand her better than any one.

    “How can you tell what she thinks? What she feels? Because you saw
    her gay, and apparently happy, at a concert why should you draw
    conclusions adverse to me? If it comes to that, you might have said
    the same of me if you had seen me at a family dinner at Grenoble,
    with a pretty young cousin on either side of me.

    “My letter is brusque, my friend, but you have upset me terribly.
    Write by return and tell me what the world says of my marriage.”

    “_31st January 1831._--Although my overpowering anxiety still
    endures, I can write more calmly to-day. I am still too ill to get
    up, and the cold is frightful here.

    “Tell me what you mean by this sentence in your last letter: ‘You
    wish to make a sacrifice; I fear me sadly that, ere long, you will
    be forced to make a most painful one.’ For heaven’s sake never
    use ambiguous words to me, above all in connection with _her_. It
    tortures me. Tell me frankly what you mean.”




XVII

ITALY

A WILD INTERLUDE


The weather was too severe to cross the Alps, I therefore determined
to out-flank them and go by sea from Marseilles. It was the first time
I had seen the sea and, as some days passed before I could hear of a
boat, I spent most of my time wandering over the rocks near Notre Dame
de la Garde.

After a while I heard of a Sardinian brig bound for Leghorn, and
engaged a passage in her in company with some decent young fellows I
had met in the Cannebière.

The captain would not undertake to feed us, so, reckoning that we
should make Leghorn in three or four days, we laid in provisions for a
week.

In fine weather, few things are more delightful than a Mediterranean
voyage--particularly one’s first. Our first few days were glorious; all
my companions were Italians, and had many stories to tell--some true,
some not, but all interesting. One had fought in Greece with Canaris,
another--a Venetian--had commanded Byron’s yacht, and the tales he told
accorded well with what one might expect of the author of _Lara_.

Time went on, but we got no nearer Leghorn. Each morning, going on
deck, my first question was, “What town is that?” and the eternal
answer was, “Nizza, signor, still Nizza.” I began to think that the
charming town of Nice had some sort of magnetic attraction for our boat.

I found out my mistake when a furious Alpine wind burst down upon
us. The captain, to make up for lost time, crowded on all sail and
the vessel heeled over and drove furiously before the gale. Towards
evening we made the Gulf of Spezzia, and the tramontana increased to
such a pitch that the sailors themselves trembled at the captain’s
foolhardiness. I stood by the Venetian, holding on to a bar and
listening to his maledictions on the captain’s madness, when suddenly a
fresh gust of wind caught the boat and sent her over on her beam-ends,
the captain rolling away into the scuppers.

In a flash the Venetian was at the tiller, shouting orders to the
sailors, who were by this time calling on the Madonna:

“Don’t bother about the Madonna now,” he cried, “get in the sails.”

The sails were reefed, the ship righted, and next day we reached
Leghorn with only one sail, so strong was the wind.

A few hours after, our sailors came to the hotel in a body to
congratulate us on our escape. And, though the poor devils hardly
earned enough to keep body and soul together, nothing would induce them
to take a farthing. It was only by great persuasion that we got them to
share an impromptu meal. My friends had confided to me that they were
on the way to join the insurrection in Modena; they had great hopes of
raising Tuscany and then marching on Rome.

But alas for their young hopes! Two were arrested before reaching
Florence and thrown into dungeons, where they may still lie rotting;
the others, I heard later, did well in Modena, but finally shared the
fate of gallant and ill-starred Menotti.

So ended their sweet dream of liberty.

I had great trouble in getting from Florence to Rome. Frenchmen were
revolutionists and the Pope did not welcome them warmly. The Florentine
authorities refused to _viser_ my passport, and nothing but the
energetic protests of Monsieur Horace Vernet, the director of the Roman
Academy, prevailed on them to let me go.

Still alone, I made my way to Rome. My driver knew no French so I was
reduced to reading the memoirs of the Empress Josephine, as we dawdled
on our road. The country was not interesting; the inns were most
uncomfortable; nothing gave me reason to reverse my decision that Italy
was a horrid country and I most unlucky in being compelled to stay in
it.

But one morning we reached a group of houses called La Storta and, as
he poured out a glass of wine, my _vetturino_ said casually, with a
jerk of his head and thumb:

“There is Rome, signore.”

Strange revulsion of feeling! As I gazed down on the far-off city,
standing in purple majesty in the midst of its vast desolate plain, my
heart swelled with awe and reverence, and suddenly I realised all the
grandeur, all the poetry, all the might of that heart of the world.

I was still lost in dreams of the past when the carriage stopped in
front of the Academy.

The Villa Medici, the home of the students and director of the
_Académie de France_, was built in 1557 by Annibale Lippi, one wing
being added by Michael Angelo. It stands on the side of the Pincian,
overlooking the city; on one side of it is the Pincian Way, on the
other the magnificent gardens designed in Lenôtre’s style, and
opposite, in the midst of the waste fields of the Villa Borghese,
stands Raphael’s house.

Such are the royal quarters that France has munificently provided
for her children. Yet the rooms of the pupils are mostly small,
uncomfortable, and very badly furnished.

The studios of the painters and sculptors are scattered about the
grounds as well as in the palace, and from a little balcony, looking
over the Ursuline gardens, there is a glorious view of the Sabine
range, Monte Cavo and Hannibal’s Camp.

There is a fair library of standard classics, but no modern books
whatever; studiously-minded people may go and kill time there up to
three in the afternoon, for there is really nothing to do. The sole
obligation of the students is, once a year, to send a sample of their
work to the Academy in Paris; for the rest of the time they do exactly
as they please.

The director simply has to see that rules are kept and the whole
establishment well managed; with the inmates’ work he has nothing to do
whatever.

It would be hardly fair that he should; to overlook and advise
twenty-two young men in five different branches of art would hardly be
within one man’s compass.

The Ave Maria was ringing as I entered the portals of the Villa and, as
that was the dinner-hour, I went straight to the refectory. As soon as
I appeared in the doorway there was a hurrah that raised the roof.

“Ho! ho! Berlioz! Oh that blessed head! that fiery mop! that dainty
nose! I say, Jalay, his nose knocks spots out of yours; take a
back-seat, my good man!”

“He can give _you_ points in hair anyway.”

“Ye gods, _what_ a crop!”

“Heigh, Berlioz! how about those infernal side-drums that wouldn’t
start the _Fire_! By Jove! he was in a wax. Good reason, too! I say,
have you forgotten me?”

“I know your face well enough, but your name----”

“He says ‘you.’ Don’t give yourself airs, old boy, we are all ‘thou’
here.”

“Well, what is _thy_ name?”

“Signol.”

“No, it isn’t; it’s _Ros_signol.”[9]

“Lord, what a beastly bad pun!”

“Do let him sit down.”

“Whom? The pun?”

“Get out! Berlioz, of course.”

“I say, Fleury, bring us some punch--real good stuff. We’ll stop this
idiot’s mouth.”

“Now our musical section is complete.”

“Montfort” (the laureate of the year before me), “embrace your comrade.”

“No, he sha’n’t!”

“Yes, he shall!” and they all yelled together.

“Look here; while you others are fighting, he’s eating all the
macaroni. Leave me a bit!”

“Well, embrace him all round and get it done with.”

“Oh, bother! Now it’s going to begin all over again.”

“I say, I’m not going to drink wine when there’s punch.”

“Not much! Break the bottles. Look out, Fleury!”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Don’t break the glasses, please! You will want
them for the punch. You would not like to drink punch out of little
glasses.”

“Perish the thought! You are a man of sense, Fleury. You were only just
in time, though.”

Fleury was the prop of the house; a thoroughly good fellow, who well
deserved the trust of the Academy directors. Nothing ruffled him; he
was so used to our scenes that he kept the aspect of a graven image,
which made it all the funnier for us.

When I had got over my tempestuous reception, I looked round the hall.
On one wall were about fifty portraits of former students, on the other
a series of the most outrageous life-sized caricatures, also of inmates
of the Academy. Unluckily, for want of wall-space, these soon came to
an end.

That evening, after an interview with M. Vernet, I followed my comrades
to the Café Greco--the dirtiest, darkest, dampest hole imaginable. How
it justifies its existence as the artist’s favourite café I cannot
imagine. We smoked abominable cigars and drank coffee that was none the
nicer for being served on dirty little wooden tables, as sticky and
greasy as the walls.

Next day I made Mendelssohn’s acquaintance; but more of this when I
come to write of Germany.[10]

For a while I got on fairly well in this new life, then gradually my
anxiety about my Paris letters, which were not forthcoming, increased
to such an extent that, in defiance of the kindly expostulations of M.
Horace Vernet, who tried to restrain me by saying that I must be struck
off the list of _pensionnaires_ if I broke the Academy’s most stringent
rule, I decided to return to Paris.

I started, but at Florence was kept in bed a week by quinsy, and so
made the acquaintance of Schlick, the Danish sculptor, a thoroughly
good fellow of much talent. During this week I rewrote the Ball Scene
for my _Symphonie Fantastique_, and added the present Coda.

It was not quite finished when, the first time I was able to go
out, I fetched my letters from the post. Among them was one of such
unparalleled impudence that I fairly took leave of my senses. Needless
to say, it was from Camilla’s mother. In it, after accusing me of
_bringing annoyance_ into her household, she announced the marriage of
my _fiancée_ to M. Pleyel.

In two minutes my plans were laid. I must hurry to Paris to kill two
guilty women and one innocent man; for, this act of justice done, I,
too, must die!

They would expect me, therefore I must go disguised. I hurried to
Schlick and showed him the letter.

“It is scandalous,” he said. “What will you do?”

I thought it best to deceive him so as to be absolutely free.

“Do? Why, return to France. But I will go to my father’s, not to Paris.”

“Right!” he replied. “Your own home will best soothe your wounded
heart. Keep up your spirits.”

“I will; but I must go at once.”

“You can easily go this evening. I know the official people here, and
will get your passport and a seat for you in the mail. Go and pack.”

Instead of packing, I went to a milliner in the Lung ‘Arno.

“Madame,” I said, “I want a lady’s-maid’s outfit by five
o’clock--dress, hat, green veil, everything. Money is no object. Can
you do it?”

She agreed, and leaving a deposit, I went back to the hotel. Taking the
score of the Ball Scene, I wrote across it:

“I have not time to finish, but if the Concert Society will perform the
piece in the absence of the composer, I beg that Habeneck will double
the flute passage at the last entry of the theme, and will write the
following chords for full orchestra. That will be sufficient finale,”
threw it into a valise with a few clothes, loaded my pistols, put
into my pockets two little bottles, one of strychnine, the other of
laudanum; then, conscience-clear with regard to my arsenal, spent the
rest of the time raging up and down the streets of Florence like a mad
dog.

At five, I went back to the shop to try on my clothes, which were
satisfactory, and with the modiste’s “good wishes for the success of my
little comedy,” I went back to say good-bye to Schlick, who looked upon
me as a lost sheep returning to the fold!

A farewell glance at Cellini’s _Perseus_, and we were off.

League after league went by and I sat with clenched teeth. I could
neither eat nor speak. About midnight the driver and I exchanged a few
words about my pistols, he remarking that, if brigands attacked us, we
must on no account attempt to defend ourselves, proceeded to take off
the caps and hide them under the cushions.

“As you like,” I said, indifferently. “I have no wish to compromise
you.”

On our arrival at Genoa (I having tasted nothing but the juice of
an orange, to the astonishment of the courier, who could not make
out whether I belonged to this world or the next), I found that, in
changing carriages at Pietra Santa, my finery had been left behind.

“Confound it all!” I thought; “this looks as if some cursed good angel
stood in the way of my plan.”

Again I hunted up a dressmaker, and after trying three, succeeded
in getting a new outfit. Meanwhile, the Sardinian people, seeing me
trotting after work-girls like this, took it into their sapient heads
that I must be a conspirator, a _carbonero_, a liberator, and refused
to _viser_ my passport for Turin. I must go by Nice.

“Then, for heaven’s sake, _viser_ it for Nice. I don’t care. I’ll go
_viâ_ the infernal regions so long as I get through.”

Which was the greater fool--the policeman, who saw in every Frenchman
an emissary of the Revolution, or myself, who thought I could not set
foot in Paris undisguised; forgetting that, by hiding for a day in a
hotel, I could have found fifty women to rig me out perfectly?

Self-engrossed people are really delightful. They fancy everyone is
thinking about them, and the deadly earnest with which they act up to
the idea is simply delicious!

So, behold me on my way to Nice, going over and over my little Parisian
drama.

Disguised as the Countess de M.’s lady’s-maid, I would go to the house
about nine o’clock with an important letter. While it was being read, I
would pull out my double-barrelled pistols, kill number one and number
two, seize number three by the hair and finish her off likewise; after
which, if this vocal and instrumental concert had gathered an audience,
I would turn the fourth barrel upon myself. Should it miss fire (such
things happen occasionally), I had a final resource in my little
bottles.

Grand climax! It seems rather a pity it never came off.

Now, despite my rage, I began to say:

“Yes, it will be most agreeable, but--to have to kill myself too,
is distinctly annoying. To say farewell to earth, to art; to leave
behind me only the reputation of a churl, who did not understand the
gentle art of living; to leave my symphony unfinished, the scores
unwritten--those glorious scores that float through my brain.... Ah!”

“But no; they shall, they must all die!”

Each minute I drew nearer to France.

That night, on the Cornice road, love of life and love of art whispered
sweet promises of days to come, and I sat listening, vaguely, dreamily,
when the driver stopped to put on the drag. Roused mentally by the
thunder of the waves upon the iron cliffs below, the stupendous majesty
of Nature burst upon me with greater force than ever before, and woke
anew the tempest in my heart--the awful wrestling of Life and Death.

Holding with both hands on to my seat, I let out a wild “Ha!” so
hoarse, so savage, so diabolic that the startled driver bounced aside
as if he had indeed had a demon for his fellow-traveller.

In my first lucid moments I remember thinking, “If only I could find
some solid point of rock to cling to before the next wave of fury and
madness sweeps over my head, I might yet be saved!”

I found one. We stopped to change horses at a little Sardinian
village--Ventimiglia, I believe[11]--and, begging five minutes from the
guard, I hurried into a café, seized a scrap of paper, and wrote to M.
Vernet, praying him to keep me on the roll of students, if I were not
already crossed off, assuring him that I had not yet broken the rule,
and promising not to cross the frontier until I received his answer at
Nice, where I would await it.

Temporarily safeguarded by my word of honour, yet free to take up my
Red Indian scheme of vengeance again, should I be excluded from the
Academy, I got quietly into the carriage and suddenly discovered that
... I was hungry, having eaten nothing since leaving Florence.

Oh, good, gross Nature! I was positively reviving!

I got to Nice, still growling at intervals; but, after a few days came
M. Vernet’s answer--a friendly paternal letter that touched me deeply.

Though ignorant of the reason of my trouble, the great artist gave me
the best advice, showing me that hard work and love of art were the
sovereign remedies for a mind diseased; telling me that the Minister
knew nothing of my escapade, and that I should be received with open
arms in Rome.

“They are saved!” I sighed. “Suppose I live too?--live quietly,
happily, musically? Why not? Let’s try!”

So for a month I dwelt alone at Nice, writing the _King Lear_ overture,
bathing in the sea, wandering through orange groves, and sleeping on
the healthy slopes of the Villefranche hills.

Thus passed the twenty happiest days of my life.

Oh, Nizza!

But the King of Sardinia’s police put an end to this idyllic life.
I had spoken to one or two officers of the garrison, and had even
played billiards with them. This was sufficient to rouse the darkest
suspicions.

“This musician cannot have come to hear _Mathilde de Sabran_” (the
only opera given just then), “since he never goes near the theatre.
He wanders alone on the hills, no doubt expecting a signal from some
revolutionary vessel; he never dines at _table d’hôte_ in order to
avoid spies; he is ingratiating himself with our officers in order
to start negotiations with them in the name of Young Italy. It is a
flagrant conspiracy!”

I was summoned to the police office.

“What are you doing here, sir?”

“Recruiting after a terrible illness. I compose, I dream, I thank God
for the glorious sun, the sea, the flower-clothed hillsides----”

“You are not an artist?”

“No.”

“Yet you wander about with a book in your hand. Are you making plans?”

“Yes, the plan of an overture to _King Lear_--at least the
instrumentation is nearly finished, and I believe its reception will be
tremendous.”

“What do you mean by reception? Who is this King Lear?”

“Oh, a wretched old English king.”

“English king?”

“Yes; according to Shakespeare he lived about eighteen hundred years
ago, and was idiotic enough to divide his kingdom between two wicked
daughters, who kicked him out when he had nothing more to give them.
You see, there are few kings that----”

“Never mind kings now. What do you mean by instrumentation?”

“It is a musical term.”

“Same excuse again! Sir, I know that you cannot possibly compose
wandering about the beach with only a pencil and paper, and no piano,
so tell me where you wish to go, and your passport shall be made out.
You cannot remain here.”

“Then I will go back to Rome, and, by your leave, continue to compose
without a piano.”

Next day I left Nice, greatly against the grain, but I was brisk and
light-hearted, well and thoroughly cured. Thus once more loaded pistols
missed fire.

Never mind. My little drama was interesting, and I cannot help
regretting it--just a little!


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.

    “_11th May 1831._--Well, Ferrand, I am getting on. Rage, threats of
    vengeance, grinding of teeth, tortures of hell--all over and done
    with!

    “If your silence means laziness on your part, it is too bad of you.
    When one comes back to life, as I have done, one feels the need of
    a friendly arm, of an outstretched hand.

    “Yes, Camille has married Pleyel, and I am glad of it. I see now
    the perils that I have escaped.

    “What meanness! what shabbiness! what apathy! what infinite--almost
    sublime--villainy, if sublime can agree with ignobility (I have
    stolen that newly coined word from you).

    “_P.S._--I have just finished a new overture--to _King Lear_.”




XVIII

ITALIAN MUSIC


I did not hurry back to Rome, but spent some time in Genoa, where I
heard Paër’s _Agnese_, and where I could find no trace of bust or
statue or tradition of Columbus. I also tried in vain to hear something
of Paganini, who at that moment was electrifying Paris, while I--with
my usual luck--was kicking my heels in his native town.

Thence I went back to Florence, which of all Italian cities appeals
to me most. There the spleen that devours me in Rome and Naples takes
flight. With barely a handful of francs--since my little excursion had
made a big hole in my income, knowing no one and being consequently
entirely free--I passed delicious days visiting odd corners, dreaming
of Dante and Michael Angelo, and reading Shakespeare in the shady woods
on the Arno bank.

Knowing, however, that the Tuscan capital could not compare with Naples
and Milan in opera, I took no thought for music until I heard people
at _table d’hôte_ talking of Bellini’s _Montecchi_, which was soon to
be given. Not only did they praise the music, but also the libretto.
Italians, as a rule, care so little for the words of an opera that I
was surprised, and thought:

“At last I shall hear an opera worthy of that glorious play. What
a subject it is! Simply made for music. The ball at Capulet’s
house, where young Romeo first sees his dazzling love; the street
fight whereat Tybalt presides--patron of anger and revenge; that
indescribable night scene at Juliet’s balcony; the witty sallies of
Mercutio; the prattle of the nurse; the solemnity of the friar trying
to soothe these conflicting elements; the awful catastrophe and the
reconciliation of the rival families above the bodies of the ill-fated
lovers.”

I hurried to the Pergola Theatre.

What a disappointment! No ball, no Mercutio, no babbling nurse, no
balcony scene, no Shakespeare!

And Romeo sung by a small thin _woman_, Juliet by a tall stout one.
Why--in the name of all things musical--why?

Do they think that women’s voices sound best together? Then why not do
away with men’s entirely?

Why should Juliet’s lover be deprived of all virility? Could a woman or
a child have slain Tybalt, having burst the gates of Juliet’s tomb and
stretched County Paris a corpse at his feet?

Surely Othello and Moses with high women’s voices would not be more
utterly incongruous.

In justice, I must say that Bellini has got a most beautiful effect in
a really powerful incident. The lovers, dragged apart by angry parents,
tear themselves free and rush into each other’s arms, crying: “We meet
again in heaven.”

He has used a quick, impassioned _motif_, sung in unison, that
expresses most eloquently the idea of perfect union.

I was unwontedly moved, and applauded heartily. Thinking that I
had better know the worst that Italian opera could perpetrate, had
better--as it were--drink the cup to the dregs, I went to hear
Paccini’s _Vestal_. Although I knew it had nothing in common with
Spontini’s opera, I little dreamed of the bitterness of the cup I
had to face. Licinius, again, was a woman.... After a few minutes’
painfully strained attention I cried, with Hamlet, “Wormwood!
wormwood!” and fled, feeling I could swallow no more, and stamping so
hard that my great toe was sore for three days after.

Poor Italy!

At least, thought I, it will be better in the churches. This was what I
heard.

A funeral service for the elder son of Louis Bonaparte and Queen
Hortense was being held.

What thoughts crowded into my mind as I stood amid the flaming torches
in the crape-hung church! A Bonaparte! _His_ nephew, almost his
grandson, dead at twenty; his mother, with his only brother, an exile
in England.

I thought of the gay creole child dancing on the deck of the ship
that carried her to France, untitled daughter of Madame Beauharnais,
adopted daughter of the master of Europe, Queen of Holland, exiled,
forgotten, bereft, without a kingdom, without a home!

Oh, Beethoven! Great soul! Titan, who couldst conceive the _Eroica_ and
the _Funeral March_, is not this a meet subject for thy genius?...

The organist pulled out the small flute stops and fooled about over
twittering little airs at the top of the key-board, exactly like wrens
preening themselves on a sunny wall in winter!

Again, hearing great things of the Corpus Christi music in Rome, I
hurried there in company with several Italians bent on the same errand.

They raved all the way of the wonders we should see, dangling before my
eyes tiaras, mitres, chasubles, etc., etc.

“But the music?” I asked.

“Oh, signor, there will be an immense choir,” then they went back to
their crosses and incense, and bell-ringing and cannon.

“But the music?” I repeated.

“Oh, there will be a gigantic choir.”

“Well, anyway,” I thought, “things will be on a magnificent scale,”
and my vivid imagination raced off to the glories of Solomon’s Temple
and the colossal pageants of ancient Egypt. Cruel gift of Nature that
clothes dull life in a golden veil! It simply made more appalling
and impossible the shrill nasal voices of the singers, the quacking
clarinets, the bellowing trombones, and the rampant vulgarity of the
big drums. It was brutal unadulterated cacophony.

Rome calls this military music!

Then, behold me once more safe at the Villa Medici, welcomed by the
director and my comrades, who most kindly and tactfully hid their
curiosity concerning my crazy journey. I had gone off having good
reason to go; I had come back--so much the better. No remarks, no
questions.


                   _To_ GOUNET, HILLER, ETC.

    “_6th May 1831._--I have made acquaintance with Mendelssohn;
    Monfort knew him before.

    “He is a charming fellow; his execution is as perfect as his
    genius, and that is saying a good deal. All I have heard of his is
    splendid, and I believe him to be one of the great musicians of his
    time.

    “He has been my cicerone. Every morning I hunt him up; he plays me
    Beethoven; we sing _Armida_; then he takes me to see ruins that,
    I must candidly own, do not impress me much. His is one of those
    clear pure souls one does not often come across; he believes firmly
    in his Lutheran creed, and I am afraid I shocked him terribly by
    laughing at the Bible.

    “I have to thank him for the only pleasant moments I had during the
    anxious days of my first stay in Rome.

    “You may imagine what I felt like when I received that astonishing
    letter from Madame Moke announcing her daughter’s marriage. She
    calmly said that she never agreed to our engagement, and begs me,
    dear kind creature! not to kill myself.

    “Hiller knows the whole story, and how I left Paris with her ring
    upon my finger, given in exchange for mine. However, I am quite
    recovered and can eat as usual. I am saved, they are saved! I threw
    myself into the arms of music, and felt how blessed it is to have
    friends.

    “I am working hard at _King Lear_.

    “Write to me, each of you, a particular and separate and individual
    letter.”


                   _To_ F. HILLER.

    “Has Mendelssohn arrived yet? His talent is wonderful,
    extraordinary, sublime. You need not suspect me of partiality
    in saying this, for he frankly owns that he cannot in the least
    understand my

[Illustration: THE VILLA MEDICI, ROME]

    music. Greet him for me; he does not think so, but I truly like him
    thoroughly.”




XIX

IN THE MOUNTAINS


I quickly fell into the Academy routine. A bell called us to meals,
and we went as we were--with straw hats, blouses plastered with clay,
slippered feet, no ties--in fact, in studio undress.

After breakfast we lounged about the garden at quoits, tennis, target
practice, shooting the misguided blackbirds who came within range, or
trained our puppies; in all of which amusements M. Horace often joined
us.

In the evening, at that everlasting Café Greco, we smoked the pipe of
peace with the “men down below,” as we dubbed artists not attached to
the Academy. After which we dispersed; those who virtuously returned
to the Academy barracks gathering in the garden portico, where my
bad guitar and worse voice were in great request, and where we sang
_Freyschütz_, _Oberon_, _Iphigenia_ or _Don Giovanni_, for, to the
credit of my messmates be it spoken, their musical taste was far from
low.

On the other hand, we sometimes had what we called English concerts. We
each chose a different song and sang it in a different key, beginning
by signal one after another; as this concert in twenty-four keys went
on crescendo, the frightened dogs in the Pincio kept up a howling
obligato and the barbers on the Piazza di Spagna down below winked at
each other, saying slyly, “French music!”

On Thursdays we went to Madame Vernet’s receptions, where we met the
best society in Rome; and on Sundays we usually went long excursions
into the country. With the director’s permission, longer journeys
might be undertaken and usually several of our number were absent.

As for me, since Rome never appealed to me, I took refuge in the
mountains; had I not done so, I doubt whether I could have lived
through that time. It may seem strange that the mighty shade of old
Rome should not impress me, but I had come from Paris, the centre of
civilisation, and was at one blow severed from music, from theatres
(they were only open for four months), from literature, since the
Papal censor excluded almost everything that I cared to read, from
excitements, from everything that, to me, meant real life.

Balls, evening parties, shooting days in the Campagna, and rides made
up the inane mill-round in which I turned. Add to that the scirocco,
the incessant yearning for my beloved art, my sorrowful memories, the
misery of being for two years exiled from the musical world, and the
utter impossibility of composing in that stagnating atmosphere, and it
will hardly be wondered at that I was as savage as a trained bull-dog,
and that the well-meant efforts of my friends to divert me only drove
me to the verge of madness.

I remember in one of my Campagna rides with Mendelssohn expressing
my surprise that no one had ever written a scherzo on Shakespeare’s
sparkling little poem _Queen Mab_. He, too, was surprised, and I was
very sorry I had put the idea into his head. For years I lived in dread
that he had used it, for he would have made it impossible--or, at any
rate, very risky--for anyone to attempt it after him. Luckily he forgot.

My usual remedy for spleen was a trip to Subiaco, which seemed to put
new life into me.

An old grey suit, a straw hat, a guitar, a gun and six piastres were
all my stock-in-trade. Thus I wandered, shooting or singing, careless
where I might pass the night; sometimes hurrying, again stopping to
investigate some ancient tomb, to listen silently to the distant bells
of St Peter’s, far away in the plain; interrupting my hunt for a flock
of lapwing to jot down a note for a symphony, and, in short, enjoying
to the full my absolute freedom.

Sometimes--a glorious landscape spread before me--I chanted, to the
guitar accompaniment, long-remembered verses of the Æneid, the death of
Pallas, the despair of Evander, the sad end of Amata, and the death of
Lavinia’s noble lover, and worked myself up to an incredible pitch of
excitement that ended in floods of tears. Elicited originally by the
woes of these mythical beings, my overwhelming grief ended by becoming
personal, and my tears flowed in self-pity for my sorrows, my doubtful
future, my broken career.

The odd thing was that, all the time, I was quite able to analyse
my feelings, although I ended by collapsing under these chaotic
miseries, murmuring a mixture of Virgil, Dante and Shakespeare--“Nessun
maggior dolore--che ricordarsi--O poor Ophelia!--good-night, sweet
ladies--vitaque cum gemitu--sub umbras--” and so fell fast asleep.

How crazy, you say? Yes, but how happy. Sensible people cannot
understand this intensity of being, this actual joy in existing, in
dragging from life the uttermost it has to give in height and depth.
Here, in the Parisian whirlpool, how well I recall the wild Abruzzi
country where I spent so long.

Bitter-sweet memories of days now passed for ever. Days of utter
irresponsible freedom to abolish time, to scorn ambition, to forget
love and glory.

Oh strong, grand Italy! Wild Italy! Heedless of that sister Italy--the
Italy of Art!

In time I became friendly with many of the villagers; one in
particular, named Crispino, grew very fond of me; he not only got me
perfumed pipe-stems (I had not then found out that I disliked the
sort of excitement produced by tobacco) but balls, powder and even
percussion caps. I first won his affection by helping to serenade
his mistress and by singing a duet with him to that untameable young
person; then fixed them by a present of two shirts and a pair of
trousers. Crispino could not write, so when he had anything to tell me
he came to Rome. What were thirty leagues to him?

At the Academy we usually left our doors open; one January
morning--having left the mountains in October I had had three months’
boredom--on turning over in bed, I found, standing over me, a great
sun-burnt scamp with pointed hat and twisted leggings, waiting quite
quietly till I woke.

“Hallo, Crispino! What brings you here?”

“Oh, I have just come to--see you.”

“Yes; what next?”

“Well--just now----”

“Just now?”

“To tell the truth--I’ve got no money.”

“Now come! That’s something like the truth. You have no money; what
business is that of mine, oh mightiest of scamps?”

“I’m no scamp. If you call me a scamp because I have no money, you are
right, but if it is because I was two years at Civita Vecchia, you are
wrong. I wasn’t sent to the galleys for stealing, but just for good
honest shots at strangers in the mountains.”

It was all nonsense, of course, I don’t believe he ever shot so much
as a monk. However, he was hurt in his feelings and would only accept
three piastres, a shirt and a neckerchief.

The poor fellow was killed two years ago in a brawl. Shall I meet him
in a better world?

       *       *       *       *       *

In the miserable oblivion and dishonour into which music has sunk in
Rome I found but one small sign of honest life. It was among the
pfifferari, players of a little popular instrument, a surviving relic
of antiquity. They were strolling musicians who, at Christmastide, came
down from the mountains in groups of four or five armed with bagpipes
and _pfifferi_, a kind of oboe, to play before the images of the Virgin.

I used to spend hours in watching them, there was something so quaintly
mysterious in their wild aspect as they stood--head slightly turned
over one shoulder, their bright dark eyes fixed devoutly on the holy
figure, almost as still as the image itself.

At a distance the effect is indescribable and few escape its spell.
When I heard it in its native haunts, among the volcanic rocks and dark
pine forests of the Abruzzi, I could almost believe myself transported
back through the ages to the days of Evander, the Arcadian.

Of this time, musically, I have little to tell. I wrote a long and
incoherent overture to _Rob Roy_, which I burnt immediately after
its performance in Paris; the _Scène aux Champs_ of the _Symphonie
Fantastique_, which I rewrote entirely in the Borghese gardens; the
_Chant de Bonheur_ for _Lelio_, and lastly a little song called _La
Captive_, inspired by Victor Hugo’s lovely poem.

One day I was at Subiaco with Lefebvre, the architect. As he drew, he
knocked over a book with his elbow; it was _Les Orientales_. I picked
it up and it opened at that particular page. Turning to Lefebvre I said:

“If I had any paper I would write music to this exquisite poem; I can
_hear it_.”

“That is soon done,” said he, and he ruled a sheet whereon I wrote my
song. A fortnight later I remembered it and shewed it to Mademoiselle
Vernet, saying:

“I wish you would try this, for I have quite forgotten what it is
like.”

I scribbled a piano accompaniment, and it took so well that, by the end
of the month, M. Vernet, driven nearly mad by its reiteration, said:

“Look here, Berlioz. Next time you go up to the mountains don’t evolve
any more songs; your _Captive_ is making life in the Villa impossible.
I can’t go a yard without hearing it sung or snored or growled. It is
simply distracting! I am going to discharge one of the servants to-day,
and I shall only engage another on condition that he does not sing the
_Captive_.”

The only other thing I did was the _Resurrexit_ that I sent as my
obligatory work to Paris. The Powers said that I had made _great
progress_. As it was simply a piece of the mass performed at St Roch
several years before I got the prize, it does not say much for the
judgment of the Immortals!


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “_January 1832._--Why did you not tell me of your marriage? Of
    course, I believe, since you say so, that you did not get my
    letters, but--even so--how could you keep silence?

    “Your _Noce des Fées_ is exquisite; so fresh, so full of dainty
    grace, but I cannot make music to it yet. Orchestration is not
    sufficiently advanced; I must first educate and dematerialise it,
    then perhaps I may think of treading in Weber’s footsteps. But
    here is my idea for an oratorio--the mere carcase, that you must
    vitalise:

    “‘The World’s Last Day.’

    “The height of civilisation, the depth of corruption, under a
    mighty tyrant, throughout the earth.

    “A faithful handful of God’s people, left alive by the tyrant’s
    contempt, under a prophet, Balthasar, who confronts the ruler
    and announces the end of the world. The tyrant, in amused scorn,
    forces him to be present at a travesty of the Last Day, but during
    its performance, the earth quakes, angels sound gigantic trumpets,
    the True Christ appears, the Judgment has come.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “That is all. Tell me if the subject appeals to you. Do not attempt
    detail, it is lost in the Opera House. And, if possible, do not be
    tied down by the absurd bond of rhyme--use it or not, as seem best.

    “I want to leave here in May; if possible, I will get the whole of
    my pension; if I cannot I must just go on a tour here. I have just
    finished an important article on the state of music in Italy for
    the _Revue Européenne_.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_March._--Many thanks for your confession of colossal idleness.
    Will you never be cured?

    “You have read me a fine homily, but you are entirely out in your
    conjecture.

    “I shall never admire ugliness in art. What I said about rhyme was
    only to make things easier for you. I could not bear you to waste
    time and talent over unnecessary difficulties. You know as well as
    I do that, in hundreds of cases, in verses set to music the rhymes
    disappear entirely--then why bother about them?

    “As for the literary side of the question, I am quite sure it is
    only custom and education that make you dislike blank verse.

    “Just think! Three quarters of Shakespeare is so written, so
    is Klopstock’s _Messiah_. Byron used it, and lately I read a
    translation of _Julius Cæsar_ that ran perfectly, although you had
    prepared me to be utterly shocked.

    “So my subject appeals to you? It is new, grand and fertile, so
    imagine into it all that you like. As far as the music is concerned
    I am exploring a virgin Brazilian forest and great are the
    treasures I hope to find.”




XX

NAPLES--HOME


Again did that wretched malady--call it moral, nervous, imaginary, what
you will, _I_ call it spleen--which is really the fever of loneliness,
seize upon me.

I had first felt it at La Côte Saint-André, when I was sixteen. One
lovely May morning I was sitting in a meadow, under the shade of a
spreading oak, reading Montjoie’s _Manuscript found at Posilippo_.
Engrossed in my story, I only gradually became aware of sweet
and plaintive songs trembling in the breeze. It was the Rogation
procession; in the old time-honoured way, that has always seemed to me
most poetical and touching, the peasants were going round the fields,
praying for the blessing of heaven on their crops. I watched them kneel
before a green-wreathed wooden cross, while the priest blessed the
land, then they passed on, and the sweet voices died in the distance.

Silence--the gentle rustling of the flowering wheat, the faint cry
of the quail to his mate, a dead leaf floating from an oak, the deep
throbbing of my own heart. Life seemed so very far away!

On the horizon the Alpine glaciers shone in the rising sun. Here was
Meylan; far over those mountains lay Italy, Naples, Posilippo--the
whole world of my story. Oh! for the wings of a dove, to leave this
clogging earth-bound body! Oh! for life at its highest and best; for
love, for rapture, for ecstasy; for the clinging clasp of hot embraces!
Love! glory! where is my bright particular star, O my heart? my Stella
Montis? Gone for ever?

Then came the crisis with crushing force. I suffered horribly, rolling
on the earth, spreading wide my empty arms, tearing up handfuls of
grass and daisies--that opened wide their innocent eyes--as I fought my
awful sense of oppression and desolation and bereavement.

Yet what was all this compared to the agony I have suffered since, to
the torment of my soul that increases daily?

I never thought of death; suicide had no place in my mind. I
wanted life, life in its fullest capacity of love and joy and
happiness--furious and all-devouring--life that would use to the
uttermost my superabundant energies.

That is not spleen. Spleen follows upon it; it is the mental, moral and
physical exhaustion that is the inevitable sequence to such a crisis.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day as I slept, worn out by this reaction, in the laurel wood of
the Villa, rolled up like a hedgehog in a heap of dry leaves, two of my
comrades woke me.

“Now then, Silenus, get up and come to Naples. We’re off.”

“Off to the devil! You know I have no money.”

“Idiot! Can’t we lend you some? Come, Dantan, help me to heave him up
or we shall get no sense out of him. There you are! Brush him down a
bit. Now be off and get a month’s leave from Monsieur Horace.”

And I went.

What shall I say of Naples? Clear bright sky, fecund earth, dazzling
sunlight!

So many have described this lovely land that I need not do it again. I
wandered in the grounds of the Villa Reale, pondering on the woes of
Tasso, and rowed to Nisita to watch the sun go down behind Capo Miseno
to the accompaniment of the thousand minor chords of the rippling sea.
As I stood, a soldier, who spoke very fair French, came up and offered
to show me the curiosities of the island. I accepted gratefully, and
after an hour’s stroll together I took out my purse. Drawing back, he
put my hand aside, saying:

“Monsieur, I want nothing. I ask nothing but--but--that you will pray
God for me.”

“Indeed I will,” I said; “it’s an odd notion, but I will do it.”

And that night I seriously did say a Paternoster for him after I got to
bed. I was beginning a second when I went into fits of laughter. So I
am afraid that, as far as my intervention is concerned, the poor man is
still a plain sergeant.

Next day the wind had freshened, and our passage back was stormy.
However, we landed at last, and my sailors, overjoyed at the thirty
francs I had promised them, insisted on my dining with them. They
were such ruffianly-looking creatures that, when they led me through
a lonely poplar wood, I began to doubt them, poor lazzaroni! However,
we soon came to a cottage where my amphitryons gave orders for the
feast--a mountain of macaroni, into which I plunged my hand with them;
a great pot of Posilippo wine, from which we drank in turn--I after
a toothless old man, the eldest of the family, for, with these good
fellows, respect for age comes before even courtesy to guests.

Then the old man began discussing politics, and talking of King
Joachim, who was very near his heart, until he got so deeply affected
that, to turn his thoughts, his children made him tell me of a long
and dangerous voyage he had once made when, after _three days and
two nights_ at sea, he had been thrown on a far-off island which the
aborigines called Elba, and where it was rumoured Napoleon had once
been kept prisoner. Of course I sympathised, and congratulated the old
man on his wonderful escape.

The young men were greatly delighted at my interest and attention; they
whispered together, there was a mysterious hurrying to and fro, and I
gathered that some surprise was in store.

As I rose to leave, the tallest of the lazzaroni, with shy politeness,
begged me to accept a present, the best they had to offer, calculated
to make the most callous of men weep.

It was a gigantic--onion! which I received with modest dignity worthy
of the occasion, and which I carried off in triumph, after a thousand
vows of eternal friendship.

That night I went to San Carlo, and, for the first time, heard music
in Italy. It was at least meritorious, though the noise made by the
conductor tapping his desk bothered me greatly. I was assured, however,
that without this support, the musicians _could not possibly keep in
time_!

The musical attractions of Naples could not rival those of the
surrounding country, so I passed most of my time in exploring until one
day, breakfasting at Castellamare with Munier, the marine painter, whom
we had christened Neptune, he said:

“What shall we do? I am sick of Naples. Don’t let us go back.”

“Shall we go to Sicily?”

“By all means. Give me time to finish a study I have begun, and I can
catch the five o’clock boat.”

“All right. Let’s see how much money we have.”

Upon investigation there turned out to be enough to take us to Palermo,
but for coming back we should have had to trust to Providence, as the
monks say. So we separated, he to paint the sea, I to walk back to Rome
over the mountains, in company with two Swedish officers whom I knew.

Thus by way of Isola di Sora, Alatri, Subiaco, and Tivoli, and with
but few adventures we got back to the Eternal City, and my life of
stagnation began once more.

I dreamed of Paris, finished my monodrama, and revised the _Symphonie
Fantastique_, then, considering that the time had come to have them
performed, I obtained M. Vernet’s permission to go back to France
before my two years expired. I sat for my portrait, took a last trip
to Tivoli, Albano, and Palestrina; sold my gun, broke my guitar, wrote
in several albums, gave a punch-party to my fellow-students, spent a
lot of time stroking M. Vernet’s two dogs--faithful companions of my
shooting excursions--had an attack of profound sorrow at the thought
that I might see this poetic land no more; climbed into a wretched old
chaise, and then--good-bye to Rome!

I went by Florence, Milan, and Turin, and at last, on the 12th May
1832, coming down the slopes of Mont Cenis, I beheld at my feet that
smiling Grésivaudan valley, where my happiest hours and brightest
dreams of childhood had passed. There was St Eynard, there the house
where shone my Stella Montis; there, through the shimmering blue haze,
my grandfather’s place bade me welcome. Surely Italy had naught to show
as lovely as this! Yet what is this strange oppression on my heart?
Afar I hear the dull and ominous murmur of Paris commanding my presence.


                   _To_ FERDINAND HILLER.

    “FLORENCE, _May 1832_.--I arrived yesterday, and found
    your letter. Why do you not say whether the sale of my medal
    realised enough to pay the two hundred francs I owe you?

    “I left Rome without regret. The Academy life had grown
    intolerable, and I spent all my evenings with the Director’s
    family, who have been most kind. Mademoiselle Vernet is prettier,
    and her father younger than ever.

    “I am glad to be here, yet my sensations are so curiously confused
    that I cannot explain them even to myself. I know no one, have no
    adventures, am utterly alone. Perhaps that is what affects me so
    oddly. I seem to be not myself but some stranger--some Russian or
    Englishman--sauntering along the Lung ‘Arno. Berlioz is merely a
    distant acquaintance.

    “This cursed throat of mine is still troublesome; it would be the
    death of me if I would allow it.

    “I shall not be in Paris till November or December, as I go
    straight home from here. Many thanks for your invitation to
    Frankfort; sooner or later I mean to accept it.”


                   _To_ MADAME HORACE VERNET.

    “LA CÔTE ST ANDRÉ, _July 1832_.--You have set me, Madame,
    a new and most agreeable task.

    “An intellectual woman not only desires that I should write her my
    musings, but undertakes to read them without emphasizing too much
    their ridiculous side.

    “It is hardly generous of me to take advantage of your kindness,
    but are we not all selfish?

    “For my part, I must own that whenever such a temptation comes I
    shall fall into it with the utmost alacrity.

    “I should have done so sooner had I not, on my descent from the
    Alps, been caught like a ball on the bound and tossed from villa to
    villa round Grenoble.

    “My fear was that, on returning to France, I might have to parody
    Voltaire and say: ‘The more I see of other lands, _the less_ I love
    my country.’ But all the glories of the glorious kingdom of Naples
    are powerless beside the ineffable charms of my beautiful vale of
    the Isère.

    “Of society, however, I cannot say the same. The advantage is
    entirely with the absent, who are not ‘always wrong’ in spite of
    the proverb.

    “Despite my herculean efforts to turn the conversation, the good
    folks here _will_ insist on talking art, music and poetry to me,
    and you may imagine how provincials talk! They have most weird
    notions, theories and ideas that make an artist’s blood curdle in
    his veins, and, withal, the calmest assumption of infallibility.

    “One would think to hear them talk of Byron, Goethe, Beethoven,
    that they were respectable bootmakers or tailors, with a little
    more talent than their compeers.

    “Nothing is good enough, there is no reverence, no respect, no
    enthusiasm!

    “Thus living in a crowd, I am utterly, cruelly alone and am parched
    for want of music.

    “No longer can I look forward to my evening’s pleasure with
    Mademoiselle Louise and her piano; no more can I try her sweet
    patience by demanding and re-demanding those sublime adagios.

    “You smile, Madame? No doubt you murmur that I know neither what I
    want nor where I would be--that I am, in fact, half demented.

    “My father devised a charming cure for my malady; he said I ought
    to marry and forthwith unearthed a rich damsel, informing me that,
    since he could leave me but little, it was my duty to marry money.

    “At first I laughed, but finding that he was in sober earnest, I
    was obliged to say firmly that, since I could not love the lady in
    question, I would not sell myself at any price.

    “That ended the discussion, but it upset me terribly, for I thought
    my father knew me better.

    “Madame, do you not think I am right?

    “As I promised Monsieur Horace, I will go to Paris at the end of
    the year to fire my musical broadside, after which I intend to
    start at once for Berlin.

    “But indeed, Madame, I am taking unmerciful advantage of your
    kindness and will conclude by asking your pardon for my garrulity.


                   _To_ FERDINAND HILLER.

    “LA CÔTE ST ANDRÉ, _August 1832_.--What a dainty, elusive,
    piquant, teasing, witty creature is this Hiller! Were we both
    women, I should detest her; were she, alone, a woman I should
    simply hate her, for I loathe coquettes. As it is--‘Providence
    having ordered all for the best’ as the good say--we are luckily
    both masculine.

    “No, my dear fellow, you, being you, naturally ‘could not do
    otherwise’ than make me wait two months for your letter; naturally,
    also, I ‘could not do otherwise’ than be angry with you therefor.
    However, as I was not wounded to the quick by your neglect, I wrote
    you a second letter which I burnt, remembering Napoleon’s wise
    saying, ‘Certain things should never be said.’ If so, still less
    should they be written.

    “Come now! Since you are learning Latin I will turn schoolmaster.

    “There are mistakes in your letter.

    “No. 1. No accent on _negre_.

    “No. 2. DE _grands amusements_, not _des_.

    “No. 3. _Il est possible que Mendelssohn_ L’AIT, not
    _l’aura_.

    “Take thou good heed unto my lesson. Ouf!

    “I am in the bosom of my family, by whom (particularly by my
    younger sister) I allow myself to be adored in an edifying manner.
    But oh! I long for liberty and love and money! They will come some
    day and perhaps also one little luxury--one of those superfluities
    that are necessities to certain temperaments--_revenge_, public and
    private. One only lives and dies once.

    “I spend my time in copying my _Mélologue_; I have been two
    months at it hard and have still sixty-two days’ work. Am I not
    persevering? I am ill for want of music, positively paralysed; then
    I still suffer from that choleraic trouble that sometimes keeps me
    in bed. However, I am up to-day, getting ready for the next attack.

    “I am going to see Ferrand; we have not met for five years. You see
    extremes meet. He is more religious than ever and has married a
    woman who adores him and whom he adores.




XXI

MARRIAGE


After spending the summer in Dauphiny, copying my monodrama, I went
on to Paris, hoping to give two concerts before starting on my German
wanderings.

Apropos of the _Chorus of Shades_ in this same composition, a rather
comical thing happened in Rome. In order to have it printed it was
necessary for it to pass the Papal censor. Now for this language of
the dead, incomprehensible to the living, I had written pure gibberish
(I have since substituted French, saving my unknown tongue for the
_Damnation de Faust_) of which the censor demanded a translation.

They tried a German, who could make nothing of it; an Englishman, the
same; Danes, Swedes, Russians, Spaniards--equally useless. Deadlock
at the censorial office! At last, after much cogitation one of the
officials evolved an argument that appealed forcibly and convincingly
to his colleagues: “Since none of these people understand the language,
perhaps the Romans will not understand it either. In that case I think
we might authorise the printing, without danger to religion or morals.”

So the _Shades_ got printed. Oh reckless censors! Suppose it had been
Sanscrit!

       *       *       *       *       *

One of my first visits in Paris was to Cherubini, whom I found much
aged and enfeebled. He received me with such affection that I was quite
disarmed and said:

“I fear me the poor man is nigh unto death!”

It was not long before I found my forebodings quite uncalled for; as
far as I was concerned he was as lively as ever.

As my old rooms in the Rue Richelieu were let, some influence compelled
me to cross the road to the house in which Miss Smithson had lived,
Rue Neuve St Marc, where I found a lodging. Next day, meeting the old
servant, I said:

“Do you know what has become of Miss Smithson?”

“Why, monsieur, she is in Paris; she only left the rooms you are in
a few days ago to go to the Rue de Rivoli. She is manageress of an
English theatre that is to open in a few days.”

Dumfoundered, I felt that this was indeed the hand of fate. For more
than two years I had heard no word of “fair Ophelia” and here I arrive
in Paris at the very moment she returns from her tour in Northern
Europe.

A mystic might well find arguments in defence of his cult in this
strange coincidence. What I said was this:

“I have come to Paris to perform my monodrama. If I go to the theatre
before the concert, I shall certainly have another attack of that
_delirium tremens_; all volition will be taken from me; I shall be
incapable of the thought and care essential to the success of my work.
So first my concert, then I will see her if I die for it and will fight
no more against this strange destiny.”

And, despite the Shakespearian names staring at me daily from all the
walls in Paris, I kept sternly to my purpose.

The programme was to consist of the _Symphonie Fantastique_ followed by
_Lelio_, the monodrama which is the complement of the former and is the
second part of my _Episode in an Artist’s Life_.

Now trace the extraordinary sequence.

Two days before the concert--which I felt would be my farewell to life
and art--I was in Schlesinger’s music-shop, when an Englishman came in
and went out almost at once.

“Who is that?” I asked, in idle curiosity.

“Schutter, of _Galignani’s Messenger_. Ah!” cried Schlesinger, “give
me a box for your concert. He knows Miss Smithson, I will get him to
persuade her to go.”

I trembled, but dared not refuse; so, running after M. Schutter, he
explained matters and got his promise to do his best to induce Miss
Smithson to go.

Now while I had been busy over my preparations the unfortunate actress
had been also busy--in ruining herself.

She did not realise that Shakespeare was no longer new to the
changeable, frivolous Parisian public and innocently counted on a
reception such as she had had three years before.

The Romantic School was now on the rising tide and its apostles were
not anxious that it should be stemmed by the colossus of dramatic
poetry nor that their wholesale filchings from his works should be
brought to light.

Hence, sparse audiences, mean receipts and considerable running
expenses that swallowed up all the poor manageress’s savings.

Schutter, long afterwards, told me that he found Miss Smithson too
dejected to accept his invitation; her sister, however, persuaded her
that the change would be good and she at length allowed him to take
her down to the carriage. On the way to the Conservatoire her eyes
fell on the programme; even then, as she read my name (which they had
taken care not to mention) she little knew that she was, herself, the
heroine of my work. But, in her box, she could not help seeing that she
was the subject of conversation in the hall and when Habeneck came on
to conduct with me--gasping with excitement--behind him, she said to
herself:

“It is indeed he--poor young man! But he will have forgotten me--at
least--I hope so.”

The symphony made a tremendous sensation; that was the day of great
enthusiasms and the hall of the Conservatoire (from which I am now shut
out) echoed with the applause of that crowd of musicians. The success,
the fiery _motifs_ of my work, its cries of love and passion and the
mere vibration of such a gigantic orchestra at close quarters, all
worked upon Miss Smithson’s sensitive organisation, and in her heart of
hearts she cried:

“Ah! If he but loved me now!----”

During the interval Schutter and Schlesinger made thinly-veiled
allusions to my sorrows and when, in the _Monodrama_, Lelio said:

“Shall I never meet this Juliet, this Ophelia, for whom my heart
wearies?”

“Juliet! Ophelia!” she thought, “he must be thinking still of me! He
loves me yet!”

From that moment she heard no more; in a dream she sat till the end; in
a dream she returned home. That was the 9th December 1832. But while
the web of one part of my life was being woven on one side of the hall,
on the other side another was in the weaving--compounded of the hatred
and wounded vanity of Fétis.

Before going to Italy I used to earn money by correcting musical
proofs. Troupenas, having given me some Beethoven scores to do that
had previously been revised by Fétis, I found them full of the most
impertinent and unmeaning corrections. I was so furious that I went off
to Troupenas and said:

“M. Fétis’ corrections are criminal. They are entirely opposed to
Beethoven’s intention, and if this edition is published, I warn you
that I shall denounce it to every musician I meet.”

Which I accordingly did and there was such an outcry that Troupenas
was obliged to suppress the corrections and Fétis thought it politic
to tell a lie and announce in the _Revue Musicale_ that there was no
truth in the rumour that he had corrected Beethoven’s symphonies. In
_Lelio_ I gibbeted him still farther by putting into my hero’s mouth
quotations of his own that the audience recognised and applauded, with
much laughter. Fétis, sitting in the front row of the gallery, got the
blow full in the face, and needless to say, was thereafter more my
inveterate enemy than ever.

But I forgot all this next day when I went to call upon Miss Smithson
and began that long course of torturing hopes and fears that lasted
nearly a year.

Her mother and sister and my parents were all opposed to our marriage,
and while various distressing scenes were in progress, the English
theatre closed in debt.

To add to her misfortunes, getting out of her carriage, she missed her
footing, and falling, broke her leg just above the ankle. The injury
was most severe and it was feared that she would be lame for life.

Her accident elicited the greatest sympathy in Paris. Mademoiselle
Mars, particularly, came forward, placing her purse, influence,
everything she had at poor Ophelia’s disposal. I managed to organise a
benefit, in which Chopin and Liszt took part, which brought in enough
to pay the most pressing debts.

At last, in the summer of 1833, Henriette being still weak and quite
ruined, I married her in the face of the opposition of our two
families. All our resources on the wedding day were three hundred
francs lent me by Gounet. But what did it matter, since she was mine?


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.

    “PARIS, _12th June 1833_.--It is really too bad of me
    to cause you anxiety on my account. But you know how my life
    fluctuates. One day calm, dreamy, rhythmical; the next bored,
    nerve-torn, snappy and snarly as a mangey dog, vicious as a
    thousand devils, sick of life and ready to end it, were it not for
    the frenzied happiness that draws ever nearer, for the odd destiny
    that I feel is mine; for my staunch friends; for music, and lastly,
    for _curiosity_. My life is a story that interests me greatly.

    “You ask how I pass my days? If I am well I read or sleep on the
    sofa (for I am in comfortable lodgings) or scribble a few well-paid
    pages for the _Europe Littéraire_. About six I go to see Henriette
    who, to my sorrow, is still ailing. I must tell you all about her
    some day. Your opinion of her is quite wrong; her life, also, is
    a strange book, of which her points of view, her thoughts, her
    feelings, are by no means the least interesting part.

    “I am still meditating the opera I asked you to write in my letter
    from Rome eighteen months ago. As, in all this time, you have not
    sufficiently conquered your laziness to write it, don’t be angry
    that I have given it to Deschamps and Saint-Félix. I really _have_
    been patient!”

    “_August 1833._--You true friend, not to despair of my future!
    These cowards cannot realise that, all the time, I am learning,
    observing, gathering ideas and knowledge. Bending before the storm,
    I still grow; the wind does but blow off a few leaves; the green
    fruit upon my branches holds too firmly to be shaken off. Your
    trust helps and encourages me.

    “Have I told you of my parting with Henriette--of our scenes,
    despair, reproaches, which ended in my taking poison? Her
    protestations of love and sorrow brought back my desire to live;
    I took an emetic, was ill three days and am still alive! In her
    self-abasement she offered to do anything I chose, but now she
    begins to hesitate again. I will wait no more and have written
    that, unless she goes with me to the Town Hall on Saturday to be
    married, I leave for Berlin at once. She shall see that I, who for
    so long have languished at her feet, can rise, can leave her, can
    live for those who love and understand me.

    “To help me to bear this horrible parting a strange chance has
    thrown in my way a charming girl of eighteen, who has fled from a
    brute who bought her--a mere child--and has kept her shut up like
    a slave for four years. Rather than go back to him, she says she
    will drown herself and my idea is to take her to Berlin, and by
    Spontini’s influence, place her in some chorus. I will try and make
    her love me, and if I succeed, I will fan into life the smouldering
    embers in my own heart and persuade myself that I love her. My
    passport is ready; I must make an end of things here. Henriette
    will be miserable but I have nothing to reproach myself with.

    “I would give my life this minute for a month of _perfect love_
    with her.

    “She must abide the consequences of her unstable character; she
    will weep and despair at first, then will dry her tears and end by
    believing me in the wrong.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_11th October 1833._--I am married! All opposition has been in
    vain. Henriette has told me of the hundred and one lies they spread
    abroad. I was epileptic, I was mad--nothing was too bad. But we
    have listened to our own hearts and all is well.

    “This winter we are going to Berlin, but before leaving I must give
    a horrid concert.

    “How _awfully_ I love my poor Ophelia! When once we can get rid of
    her troublesome sister, life will be hard but quite happy.

    “We are at Vincennes, where my wife can spend her days in the Park,
    but I go to Paris every day. Our marriage has made the devil’s own
    row there.

    “My little fugitive is provided for. Jules Janin has arranged to
    send her away.

    “Write soon. I love to answer, in order to tell you of the heaven
    I live in--it needs but you! Surely love and friendship like yours
    and mine is one of the supreme joys of this world!”




XXII

NEWSPAPER BONDAGE


At the time of our marriage our sole income was my scholarship, which
still had a year and a half to run; but the Minister of the Interior
absolved me from the regulation German tour. I had a fair number of
friends and adherents in Paris and firm faith in the future.

To pay my wife’s debts, I had to start _benefit-mongering_. My friends
rallied round me--amongst them Alexandre Dumas, who was all his life
my most devoted helper--and after untold annoyances we arranged a
theatrical performance, followed by a concert at the Théâtre Italien.

The programme was Dumas’ _Antony_, played by Firmin and Madame
Dorval, followed by the fourth act of _Hamlet_, by my wife and
some English amateurs; then a concert consisting of my _Symphonie
Fantastique_, _Francs-Juges_, _Sardanapalus_, a chorus of Weber and his
_Concert-Stück_, played by Liszt.

If the concert had ever come off entirely it would have lasted till one
in the morning. But it did not, and for the sake of young musicians I
must tell what happened.

Not being versed in the manners and customs of theatrical musicians,
I arranged with the manager to take his theatre and orchestra, adding
to the latter some players from the Opera, an impossibly dangerous
combination, since the theatre _employés_ were bound by contract to
take part gratuitously in concerts in their own house, and, therefore,
naturally look upon them as a burden. By engaging paid artists, I
simply added to their grievance, and they determined to be revenged.

Then, my wife and I being equally ignorant of the petty intrigues of
the theatrical world we took no precautions to insure her success. We
never even sent a ticket to the _claque_, and Madame Dorval, believing
Henriette’s triumph secured, of course took measures to arrange for
her own. Besides, she played splendidly, so it was no wonder she was
applauded and recalled.

The fourth act of _Hamlet_, separated from its context, was
incomprehensible to French people and fell absolutely flat. They even
noticed (although her talent and grace were as great as ever) how
difficult my poor wife found it to raise herself from her kneeling
position by her father’s bier, by resting one hand on the stage. Gone
was her magnetic power to thrill her audience, and, at the fall of the
curtain, those who had idolised her did not even recall her once! It
was heart-breaking. My poor Ophelia, the twilight had indeed crept on!

As to the concert, the _Francs-Juges_ was poorly played but well
received; the _Concert-Stück_, played by Liszt with the passionate
impetuosity he always put into it, created a furore, and I, carried
away by enthusiasm, was idiotic enough to embrace him on the stage, a
piece of stupidity fortunately condoned by the audience.

From then things went badly, and by the time we arrived at the symphony
not only were my pulses beating like sledge-hammers, but it was very
late indeed. I knew nothing of the rule of the Théâtre Italien, that
its musicians need not play after midnight, and when, after Weber’s
_Chorus_, I turned to review my orchestra before raising my baton, I
found that it consisted of five violins, two violas, four ’cellos, and
a trombone, all the others having slipped quietly away.

In my consternation I could not think what to do. The audience did not
seem inclined to leave and loudly called for the symphony, one voice in
the gallery shouting, “Give us the _Marche au Supplice_!”

“How can I,” cried I, “perform such a thing with five violins? Is it my
fault that the orchestra has disappeared?”

I was crimson with rage and shame.

With disappointed murmurs the people melted away. Of course my enemies
announced that my music “drove musicians out of the place.”

That miserable evening brought in seven thousand francs, which went
into the gulf of my wife’s debts without, alas! filling it up. That was
only done after years of struggle and privation.

I longed to give Henriette a splendid revenge, but there were no
English actors in Paris to help her with a complete play, and we
both saw that mutilated Shakespeare was worse than useless. I was,
therefore, obliged to content myself with taking vengeance for the
malicious reports about my music, and, with Henriette’s full approval,
I arranged for a concert of my own works at the Conservatoire.

It was a terrible risk for a penniless man, but here, as ever, my wife
shewed herself the courageous opponent of half-measures and steadfastly
determined to face the chance of positive penury.

The concert, for which I engaged the very best artists, amongst whom
were many of my friends, was a triumphant success. I was vindicated.

My musicians (none of whom came from the Italien) beamed with joy,
and, to crown all, when the audience had dispersed I found waiting
for me a man with long black hair, piercing eyes, and wasted
form--genius-haunted, a colossus among giants--whom I had never seen
before, yet who stirred within me a strange emotion.

Catching my hand, he poured forth a flood of burning praise and
appreciation that fired my heart and head.

It was Paganini.

This was on the 22nd December 1833.

Thus began my friendship with that great artist to whom I owe so much
and whose generosity towards me has given rise to such absurd and
wicked reports. Some weeks later he said:

“I have a beautiful Strad. viola which I long to play in public. Will
you write me a solo for it? I could not trust anyone but you.”

“To do that one ought to play the viola,” I objected. “You alone could
do it satisfactorily.”

But he insisted:

“I am too ill to compose; it would be useless to try. You will do it
properly.”

So to please him I tried to write a viola solo with orchestral
accompaniment, feeling sure that his power would enable him to dominate
the orchestra. It seemed to me an entirely new idea, and I burned to
carry it through. However, he called soon after and asked to see a
sketch of his part.

“This won’t do,” he said, looking at the pauses, “there is too much
silence. I must be playing all the time.”

“Did I not tell you so?” I answered. “What you want is a viola
concerto, and you are the only one who can write it.”

He seemed disappointed and dropped the subject; a few days later,
suffering from the throat trouble of which he afterwards died, he left
for Nice and did not come back for three years.

Still ruminating over my idea, I wove round the viola solo a series of
scenes, drawn from my memories of wanderings in the Abruzzi, which I
called _Childe Harold_, as there seemed to me about the whole symphony
a poetic melancholy worthy of Byron’s hero. It was first performed
at my concert, 23rd November 1834, but Girard, the conductor, made a
terrible hash of the _Pilgrim’s March_. However, being doubtful of my
own powers, I still allowed him to direct my concerts until, after the
fourth performance of _Harold_, seeing that he would not take it at the
proper _tempo_, I assumed command myself, and never but once after that
broke my rule of conducting my own compositions.

We shall see how much cause I had to regret that one exception.


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “MONTMARTRE, _30th August 1834_.--You are not
    forgotten--not the least little bit, but you cannot know what a
    slave I am to hard necessity. Had it not been for those confounded
    newspaper articles I should have written to you a dozen times.

    “I will not write the usual empty phrases on your loss yet, if
    anything could soften the blow, it would be that your father’s
    death was as peaceful as one could wish. You speak of my father.
    He wrote kindly and quickly in answer to my letter announcing the
    birth of my boy. Henriette thanks you for your messages; she, too,
    understands the depth of our friendship. I could write all night
    but, as I have to tug at my galley-oar all day, I must go to sleep.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_30th November 1834._--I quite expected a letter from you to-day,
    and although I am dropping with fatigue, I must snatch half an hour
    to answer it. The _Symphonie Fantastique_ is out, and, as our poor
    Liszt has dropped a terrible lot of money over it, we arranged with
    Schlesinger that not one copy was to be given away. They are twenty
    francs. Shall I buy one for you?

    “Would to heaven I could send it you without all this preface, but
    you know we are still very straitened. My wife and I are as happy
    as it is possible to be, in spite of our worldly troubles, and
    little Louis is the dearest and sweetest of children.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_10th January 1835._--If I had had time I should already have
    begun another work I am thinking of, but I am obliged to scribble
    these wretched, ill-paid articles. Ah! if only art counted for
    something with the Government perhaps I should not be reduced to
    this. Never mind, I must find time somehow.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_April 1835._--I wrote, about a month ago, an introduction to you
    for a young violinist named Allard, who is on his way to Geneva.

    “So you have been in Milan! Not a town I like, but it is the
    threshold of Italy. I cannot tell you how much, when the weather
    is fine, I long for my ancient Campagna and the wild hills that I
    loved.

    “You ask for news of us.

    “Louis can nearly walk alone and Henriette is more devoted to him
    than ever. I work like a nigger for the four papers whence I get
    my daily bread. They are the _Rénovateur_, which pays badly; the
    _Monde Dramatique_ and _Gazette Musicale_ which pay only fairly;
    the _Débats_, which pays well.

    “Added to this is the nightmare of my musical life; I cannot find
    time to compose.

    “I have begun a gigantic piece of work for seven hundred musicians,
    to the memory of the great men of France.

    “It would soon be done if I had but one quiet month, but I dare
    not give up a single day to it, lest we should want for absolute
    necessaries.

    “Which concert do you refer to? I have given seven this season and
    shall begin again in November.

    “At present we sit dumb under the triumph of Musard,[12] who,
    puffed up by the success of his dancing-den concerts, looks upon
    himself as a superior Mozart. Mozart never composed anything like
    the ‘Pistol-shot Quadrille,’ consequently Mozart died of want.

    “Musard is earning twenty thousand francs a year, and Ballanche,
    the immortal author of _Orpheus_ and _Antigone_ was nearly thrown
    into prison, because he owed two hundred francs.

    “Think of it, Ferrand; does not madness lie that way? If I were a
    bachelor, so that my rash doings would recoil on myself alone, I
    know what I would do.

    “Never mind that now, though. Love me always and, to please me,
    read de Vigny’s _Chatterton_.”

    “_December 1835._--Do not think me a sinner for leaving you so
    long in silence. You can have no idea of my work--but I need not
    emphasise that, for you know how much pleasure I have in writing to
    you and that I should not lightly forego it.

    “I have seen Coste, who is publishing serially _Great Men of
    Italy_, and he is going to approach you about contributing some
    articles. Among those now out is a life of Benvenuto Cellini. Read
    it, if you are not already familiar with the autobiography of that
    bandit of genius.

    “_Harold_ is more successful even than last year, and I think it
    quite outdoes the _Fantastique_.

    “They have accepted my _Cellini_ for the Opera; Alfred de Vigny[13]
    and Auguste Barbier have written me a poem full of dainty vivacity
    and colour. I have not begun to work at the music yet, because I am
    in the same predicament as my hero, Cellini--short of money. Good
    reports from Germany, thanks to Liszt’s piano arrangement of my
    Symphony.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_April 1826._--I still work frightfully hard at journalism. You
    know I write concert critiques for the _Débats_, which are signed
    ‘H.’

    “They seem to be making a stir. Parisian artists call them
    epoch-making.

    “In spite of M. Bertin (the editor’s) wish, I refused to review
    either _I Puritani_ or that wretched _Juive_. I should have had to
    find too much fault, and people would have put it down to jealousy.

    “Then there is the _Rénovateur_, wherein I can hardly control my
    wrath over all these ‘pretty little trifles’; and _Picturesque
    Italy_ has dragged an article out of me.

    “Next, the _Gazette Musicale_ plagues me for a _résumé_ of the
    week’s inanities every Sunday.

    “Added to that I have tried every concert room in Paris, with
    the idea of giving a concert, and find none suitable except the
    Conservatoire, which is not available until after the last of the
    regular concerts on the 3rd May.

    “We often talk of you to Barbier; he is a kindred soul whom you
    would love. No one understands better than he the grandeur and
    nobility of an artist’s calling.

    “Germany still talks of me; Vienna asks for a copy of the score of
    the _Fantastique_, but I tell them I cannot possibly let them have
    it, as I propose to give it on tour myself.

    “All the poets in Paris, from Scribe to Victor Hugo, offer me
    subjects, but those idiotic directors stand in the way. Some day I
    will set my foot upon their necks.

    “Now I must be off to the office of the _Débats_ with my article on
    Beethoven’s _C Minor_.

    “Meyerbeer is coming soon to superintend his _Huguenots_, which I
    am most anxious to hear. He is the only recognised musician who has
    shown a keen interest in me.

    “Onslow has been paying me his usual bombastic compliments on the
    _Pilgrim’s March_. I am glad to think there was not a word of truth
    in them, I prefer open hatred to honeyed venom.”




XXIII

THE REQUIEM


In 1836 M. de Gasparin, Minister of the Interior, feeling that
religious music should be better supported, allocated, yearly, a sum of
3000 francs to be given to a French composer, chosen by the Minister,
for either a mass or an oratorio; his idea being also to have it
executed at the expense of the Government.

“I shall begin with Berlioz,” he said, “I am sure he could write a good
Requiem.”

A friend of M. de Gasparin’s son told me this. My surprise was only
equalled by my delight, but, to make sure, I asked an audience of M. de
Gasparin.

“It is quite true,” he said, “I am going out of office, and this is my
last bequest. You have, of course, received the official notification.”

“No, monsieur; it was by a mere chance that I heard of your kind
intentions towards me.”

“What! you ought to have had it a week ago. It must be an official
oversight; I will look into it.”

But nothing happened, and I finally spoke to the Minister’s son, who
told me that there was an intrigue on foot to put off my commission
until his father’s retirement, after which the Director of Fine
Arts--who had no love for me, but whom I need not name since he is
dead--hoped that it would be shelved.

This Monsieur X. was a Rossinist. One day I heard him giving his
opinion of composers, ancient and modern, and rejecting them all,
except Beethoven, whom he forgot. Suddenly he bethought him and said:

“Let’s see. I believe there is another--a German--what is his name?
They play his symphonies at the Conservatoire. You may know him,
Monsieur Berlioz?”

“Beethoven.”

“Ah yes, Beethoven. I believe he has a certain amount of talent.”

I heard that myself. _Beethoven not devoid of talent!_

M. de Gasparin had no intention of being ignored; therefore, finding
that nothing had been done, he sent for M. X. and ordered him sternly
to make out my appointment at once.

Naturally this snub did not increase M. X.’s friendly feeling towards
me but, armed with my decree, I set to work with the greatest ardour.

I had so long ached to try my hand at a Requiem that I flung myself
into it body and soul. My head seemed bursting with the ferment of
ideas, and I actually had to invent a sort of musical short-hand to get
on fast enough.

All composers know the bitter despair of losing beautiful ideas through
want of time to jot them down.

In spite of the rapidity with which I wrote, I afterwards made but few
corrections.

Is it not strange that, during that volcanic time, I should twice over
have dreamed that I was sitting in the Meylan garden, under a beautiful
weeping acacia, alone. Estelle was not there, and I kept asking:

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Who can explain it? Only those who recognise the affinity of the
mysteries of the human heart with those of the magnet.

Here, briefly, is a list of the miseries I endured over that Requiem.

It was arranged that it should be performed at the memorial service
held every July for the victims of the Revolution of 1830. I,
consequently, had the parts copied, and was beginning rehearsals, when
I was told to stop, as the service was to be held without music.

Of course the new Minister owed a certain amount to my copyists and
chorus (without mentioning myself), yet will it be believed that for
five months I had to besiege that department for those few hundred
francs? At last, losing all patience, I had a pretty lively quarrel
with M. X., and as I left his room the guns of the Invalides proclaimed
the fall of Constantine.

Two hours later he sent for me in hot haste. A funeral service was to
be held for General Damrémont and the soldiers who had fallen in the
siege.

Now mark! This being a military affair, General Bernard had charge
of it, and in this way M. X. hoped to get rid of me and also of the
necessity of paying his just debts.

Here the drama becomes complicated.

Cherubini, hearing that my Requiem was to be performed, worked himself
into a fever, for he considered that _his_ Requiem should have a
monopoly of such ceremonies. His rights, his dignity, his genius, all
set aside in favour of a hot-headed young heretic!! His friends, headed
by Halévy, started a cabal to oust me.

Being one morning in the _Débats_ office, I saw Halévy come in. Now M.
Bertin, the editor, has always been one of my best and kindest friends,
and the frigid reception he and his son Armand gave the visitor
somewhat disconcerted him--my presence still more so--and he found a
change of tactics advisable.

He followed M. Bertin into the next room, and I, through the open door,
heard him say that “Cherubini took it so to heart that he was ill in
bed, and he (Halévy) had come to beg M. Bertin to use his influence in
getting him the consolation of the Legion of Honour.”

M. Berlin’s cold voice broke in:

“Certainly, my dear Halévy, we will do our best to get Cherubini such
a well-merited distinction. But as far as the Requiem is concerned, if
Berlioz gives way one jot, _I will never speak to him again_.”

So much for that failure. Next came a blacker plot.

General Bernard agreed that I should have a free hand, and rehearsals
had already begun when M. X. sent for me again. This time it was:

“Habeneck has always conducted our great official performances, and I
know he would be terribly hurt at being left out of this. Are you on
good terms with him?”

“Why, no. We have quarrelled, goodness only knows why--I don’t! He has
not spoken to me for three years. I never troubled to find out the
reason, but he began by refusing to conduct one of my concerts. Still,
if he wishes to conduct this one, he may, but I reserve the right of
conducting one rehearsal.”

On the great day princes, ministers, peers, deputies, the press--home
and foreign--and a mighty crowd gathered in the Invalides. It was most
important that I should have a real success, failure would have crushed
me irretrievably.

My performers were rather curiously arranged. To get the right effect
in the _Tuba mirum_, the four brass bands were placed one at each
corner of the enormous body of instrumentalists and choristers. As
they join in, the _tempo_ doubles, and it is, of course, of the utmost
importance that the time should be absolutely clearly indicated.
Otherwise, my Titanic cataclysm--prepared with so much thought and care
by means of original and hitherto unknown combinations of instruments
to represent the Last Judgment--becomes merely a hideous pandemonium.

Suspicious as usual, I took care to be close to Habeneck--in fact, back
to back with him--keeping an eye on the group of kettledrums (which he
could not see) as the critical moment drew near.

There are about a thousand bars in my Requiem; will it be believed that
at this--the most important of all--Habeneck _calmly laid down his
baton and, with the utmost deliberation, took a pinch of snuff_.

But my eye was upon him; turning on my heel, in a flash I stretched out
my arm and marked the four mighty beats. The executants followed me,
all went right, and my long-dreamed-of effect was a magnificent triumph.

“Dear me,” bleated Habeneck, “I was quite in a perspiration; without
you we should have been done for.”

“Yes, we should,” I answered, eyeing him steadily.

Could it be that this man, in conjunction with M. X. and Cherubini,
planned this dastardly stroke?

I do not like to think so, yet I have not the slightest doubt. God
forgive me if I wrong them.

The Requiem had succeeded, but then began the usual sordid trouble
about payment.

General Bernard, a thoroughly honourable man, had promised me ten
thousand francs for the performance as soon as I brought from the
Minister of the Interior a promise to pay the sum ordered by the
late Minister--M. de Gasparin--and also that due to the copyists and
choristers.

But do you think I could get this letter? It was written out ready for
his signature, and from ten to four I waited in his ante-room. At last
he emerged and, being button-holed by his secretary, scrawled his name
to the precious document, and without a moment’s loss of time I hurried
off to General Bernard, who promptly handed me the ten thousand francs,
which I spent entirely in paying the performers.

Of course I thought the Minister’s three thousand would soon follow.

_Sancta simplicitas!_ Will it be credited that only by making most
unpleasant, almost scandalous, scenes could I, at the end of _eight
months_, get that money?

Later on, when my good friend, M. de Gasparin, again came into office,
he tried to make up for my mortification by giving me the Legion of
Honour. But by that time I was past caring for such a commonplace
distinction.

Duponchel, manager of the Opera and Bordogni, the singing-master, got
it at the same time.

When the Requiem was printed, I dedicated it to M. de Gasparin, all the
more willingly that he was not then in power.

What added greatly to the humour of the situation was that the
opposition newspapers dubbed me a “Government parasite,” and said I had
been paid thirty thousand francs. They only added a nought.

Thus is history written.

Ere long Cherubini played me another charming trick.

A professorship of Harmony was vacant at the Conservatoire, for which I
applied. Cherubini sent for me, and, in his most honeyed voice, said:

“Is it zat you present yourself for ze ’armonee?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Zen you vill get it. You ’ave a reputation, influence----”

“Since I asked for it because I want it, I am glad, monsieur.”

“Yes, but zat is vhere I am bothair; I vill zat anozzer get it.”

“Then, monsieur, I withdraw.”

“No, no! I vill not ’ave zat, because you see zey will say I am ze
cause zat you vizdraw.”

“Then I won’t withdraw.”

“But--but--zen you vill get ze place--and I did not vish it for you.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“You know zat you must be pianist, for teach ze ’armonee at
Conservatoire, my tear fallow.”

“Ah, I never thought of that. That is a capital excuse. You want me to
say that, not being a pianist, I withdraw?”

“Just so! just so, my tear fallow! But _I_ am not ze excuse zat you
vizdraw----”

“Certainly not, monsieur; it was stupid of me to forget that only
pianists could teach Harmony.”

“Yes, my tear boy; embrace me, for I lof you much.”

A week after he gave the place to Bienaimé, who played the piano as
well as I do!

Now I call that a thoroughly well-planned trick, and I was among the
first to laugh at it.

Soon after, I seriously hurt the feelings of the friend who “lofed me
much.”

It was at the first performance of his _Ali Baba_, about the emptiest,
feeblest thing he ever wrote. Near the end of the first act, tired of
hearing nothing striking, I called out:

“Twenty francs for an idea!”

In the middle of the second I raised my bid.

“Forty francs for an idea!”

The finale commenced.

“Eighty francs for an idea!”

The finale ended and I took myself off, remarking:

“By Jove! I give it up. I’m not rich enough!”

Of course indignant friends of Cherubini told him of my insolence and,
considering how he “lofed” me, he must have thought me an ungrateful
wretch.

I had better explain here how I got on to the staff of the _Débats_.
One day, being utterly wretched and not knowing where to turn for
money, I wrote an extravagantly amusing tale called “Rubini at Calais.”
These contrasts happen sometimes.

A few days after it came out in the _Gazette Musicale_, the _Journal
des Débats_ reproduced it, with a few words of cordial appreciation
from the editor.

I went to thank M. Bertin, who offered me the proud post of musical
editor. This enabled me to throw up my least well-paid work; yet,
all the same, I abominate criticism, and feel quite ill from the
moment I see the advertisement of a new performance until I have
written my article on it. The ever-recurring task poisons my life. I
hate circumlocution, diplomacy, trimming, and all half-measures and
concessions. They are so much gall and wormwood to me.

People call me passionate, rude, spiteful, prejudiced. O scrubby louts!
If you but knew all I _want_ to write of you, you would find your
present bed of nettles a couch of roses compared to the gridiron on
which I long to toast you!

At least I can truly say that never have I grudged the fullest,
most heartfelt praise to all that aims at the good and true and
beautiful--even when it emanates from my bitterest foes.

One day Armand Bertin, who was grieved at my narrow circumstances, told
me he had heard that I was to be appointed professor of composition
at the Conservatoire, in spite of Cherubini. M. X., whom I met at
the Opera, confirmed it, and I begged him to tender my thanks to the
Minister for a position that would be to me assured comfort.

That was the last I heard of it.

Still I got something--the post of librarian, which I still hold and
which brings me in 118 francs a month.

While I was in England,[14] several worthy patriots tried to eject me,
and it was only the kind intervention of Victor Hugo--who had some
authority in the Chamber--that saved it for me. Another good friend
of mine was M. Charles Blanc, who became Director of Fine Arts, and
frequently helped me with a ready warmth I shall never forget.




XXIV

FRIENDS IN NEED


And now for my opera and its deadly failure.

The strange career of Benvenuto Cellini had made such an impression
on me that I stupidly concluded that it would be both dramatic and
interesting to other people. I therefore asked Léon de Wailly and
Auguste Barbier to write me a libretto on it. I must own that even
our friends thought it had not the elements essential to success, but
it pleased me, and even now I cannot see that it is inferior to many
others that are played daily.

In order to please the management of the _Débats_, Duponchel, manager
of the Opera--who looked upon me as a species of lunatic--read the
libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying
that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was
ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming.

Never shall I forget the misery of those three months’ rehearsals.
The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habeneck’s bad
temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general
hostility against which I was powerless. It was worse when we came to
the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habeneck’s surly manner, were
cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not.
He never could manage the quick _tempo_ of the saltarello; the dancers,
unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried:

“Faster! Faster! Wake up!”

Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow.

After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly:

“My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being
twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello.”

He turned to the orchestra.

“Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz,” said he, “we will stop
for to-day. You may go.”

If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not
allowed to direct their own works in theatres.

Years later I conducted my _Carnaval Romain_, where that very
saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal
at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present.
I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly.

The audience cried “encore,” and the second time was even better than
the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him
over my shoulder.

“That’s how it goes.” He did not reply.

I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the
torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure.

       *       *       *       *       *

But to return to _Benvenuto_.

Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and
several declared that this was the most original score they had ever
played. Duponchel heard them and said:

“Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz’ music
charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies.”

Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing
_J’ai du bon tabac_ instead of their parts.

It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners,
who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for
Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath
his dignity.

The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was
unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times.

It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at
the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and
impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a
raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and
which deserve a better fate.[15]

_Benvenuto_ took me a long time to write and would never have been
ready--tied as I was by my bread-earning journalistic work--had it not
been for the help of a friend.

It was heart-breaking, and I had almost given up the opera in despair
when Ernest Legouvé came to me, asking:

“Is your opera done?”

“First act not even ready yet. I have no time to compose.”

“But supposing you had time----”

“I would write from dawn till dark.”

“How much would make you independent?”

“Two thousand francs.”

“And suppose someone--If someone--Come, do help me out!”

“With what? What do you mean?”

“Why, suppose a friend lent it to you?”

“What friend could I ask for such a sum?”

“You needn’t ask when I offer it----”

Think of my relief! In real truth, next day Legouvé lent me two
thousand francs, and I finished _Benvenuto_. His noble heart--writer
and artist as he was--guessed my trouble and feared to wound me by his
offer! I have been fortunate in having many staunch friends.

Paganini was back in Paris when _Benvenuto_ was slaughtered; he felt
for me deeply and said:

“If I were a manager I would commission that young man to write me
three operas. He should be paid in advance, and I should make a
splendid thing by it.”

Mortification and the suppressed rage in which I had lived during those
everlasting rehearsals, brought on a bad attack of bronchitis that kept
me in bed, unable to work.

But we had to live, and I determined to give two concerts at the
Conservatoire. The first barely paid its expenses so, as an attraction,
I advertised the _Fantastique_ and _Harold_ together for the 16th
December 1838.

Now Paganini, although it was written at his desire, had never heard
_Harold_, and, after the concert, as I waited--trembling, exhausted,
bathed in perspiration--he, with his little son, Achille, appeared at
the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Consumption of the throat,
of which he afterwards died, prevented his speaking audibly and Achille
alone could interpret his wishes.

He signed to the child, who climbed on a chair and put his ear close to
his father’s mouth, then turning to me he said:

“Monsieur, my father orders me to tell you that never has he been so
struck by music. He wishes to kneel and thank you.”

Confused and embarrassed, I could not speak, but Paganini seized my
arm, hoarsely ejaculating, “Yes! Yes!” dragged me into the theatre
where several of my players still lingered--and there knelt and kissed
my hand.

Coming away in a fever from this strange scene, I met Armand Bertin;
stopping to speak to him in that intense cold sent me home to bed worse
than ever. Next day, as I lay, ill and alone, little Achille came in.

“My father will be very sorry you are ill,” he said, “if he had not
been ill himself he would have come to see you. He told me to give you
this letter.”

As I began to open it, the child stopped me:

“He said you must read it alone. There is no answer.” And he hurried
out.

I supposed it just a letter of congratulation; but here it is:

    “DEAR FRIEND,--Only Berlioz can recall Beethoven, and I,
    who have heard that divine work--so worthy of your genius--beg
    you to accept the enclosed 20,000 francs, as a tribute of
    respect.--Believe me ever, your affectionate friend,

                               NICCOLO PAGANINI.

    “PARIS, _18th Dec. 1838_.”

I knew enough Italian to make out the letter, but it surprised me so
greatly that my head swam, and, without thinking of what I was doing,
I opened the little note which was enclosed and addressed to M. de
Rothschild. It was in French and ran:

    “MONSIEUR LE BARON,--Would you be so good as to hand over
    the 20,000 francs that I deposited yesterday to M. Berlioz.

                               PAGANINI.”



Then I understood.

My wife, coming in, thought that some new trouble had fallen upon us.

“What is it now?” she cried. “Be brave! we have borne so much already.”

“No, no--not that----”

“What then?”

“Paganini--has sent me--20,000 francs!”

“Louis! Louis!” cried Henriette, rushing for her boy, “come here to
your mother and thank God.”

And together they knelt by my bed--grateful mother and wondering child.
Oh Paganini! why could you not be there to see?

Naturally, my first thought was to thank him. My letter seemed so poor,
so inadequate, that I am ashamed to give it here. There are feelings
beyond words.

His munificent kindness was soon noised abroad and my room besieged
by friends anxious to know the facts. All rejoiced and some were
jealous--not of me, but of Paganini, who was rich enough to do such
deeds. Then began the comments, fury and lies of my opponents, followed
by the congratulatory letter of Janin and his eloquent article in the
_Débats_.

For a week I lay in bed, burning with impatience to see and thank
my benefactor. Then I hurried to his house and found him in the
billiard-room. We embraced in silence then, as I poured forth broken
thanks, he spoke and--thanks to the silence of the room--I was able to
make out his words.

“Not a word! It is so little and has given me the greatest pleasure
of my life. You cannot tell how much your music moves me. Ah!” he
cried, with a blow of his fist on the table, “now your enemies will be
silenced for they know I understand and am not easily satisfied.”

But great as was his name it was not great enough to silence the dogs
of Paris; in a few weeks they were again baying at my heels.

My earnest wish, now that all debts were paid and a handsome sum
remained in hand, was to write a masterpiece, grand, impassioned,
original, worthy of dedication to the master to whom I owed so much.

But Paganini, growing worse, had left for Nice, whence alas! he
returned no more. I consulted him as to a suitable theme, but he
replied:

“I cannot advise you. You best know what suits you best.”

After much wavering I fixed on a choral symphony on Shakespeare’s
_Romeo and Juliet_, and wrote the prose words for the choral portion,
which Emile Deschamps, with his usual kindness and extraordinary
versatility, put into poetry for me.

Ah! the joy of no more newspaper articles!--or at least hardly any.
Paganini had given me money to make music, and I made it. For seven
months, with only a few days’ intermission, did I work at my symphony.

And, during those months, what a burning, exhilarating life I led! Ah!
the joy of floating on the halcyon sea of poetry; wafted onward by the
sweet soft breeze of imagination; warmed by the rays of that golden sun
of love unveiled by Shakespeare! I felt within me the god-like strength
to win my way to that blessed hidden isle, where the temple of pure art
raises its soaring columns to the sky.

To others must I leave it to say whether I ever truly looked upon its
glories.

Such as it was, my symphony was performed three times running, and each
time appeared to be a great success. To my sorrow, Paganini never heard
it nor read it. I hoped to see him again in Paris; then to send him the
printed score; but he died at Nice leaving to me the poignant sorrow
that he would never judge whether the work, undertaken to please him
and to justify his faith in its author, was worthy of his great trust.

He, too, seemed sorry not to have known it, and in his letter of the
7th January 1840, he wrote:

“Now it is well done; jealousy can but be silent.”

Dear, noble friend! He never saw the ribald nonsense written about my
work; how one called my _Queen Mab_ music a badly-oiled squirt, how
another--speaking of the _Love-Scene_, which musicians place in the
forefront of my work--said I _did not understand Shakespeare_!

Empty-headed toad, bursting with stupid self-importance! If you could
prove that....

Never was I more deeply hurt by criticism, and yet none of these high
priests of art deigned to point out the faults, which I thankfully
corrected, when told of them.

For instance, Ernst’s secretary, M. Frankoski, wrote from Vienna saying
that the end of _Queen Mab_ was too abrupt; I therefore wrote the
present coda and destroyed the original one.

The criticisms of M. d’Ortigue I also appreciated. The rest of the
alterations were my own.

But the symphony is enormously difficult for the executants, both in
form and style, and needs most careful, conscientious practice and
perfect conducting--which means that none but first-rate artists in
each department could possibly do it.

For this reason it will never be given in London. They do not give
enough time to rehearsals. The musicians there have no time for
music.[16]




XXV

BRUSSELS--PARIS OPERA CONCERT


                   _To_ FRANZ LISZT.

    “PARIS, _6th August 1839_.--I long, dear friend, to
    tell you all the musical news--at least all that I know. Not
    that you will find anything new in it. You must be quite _blasé_
    with studying Italian modes of thought; they are dreadfully like
    Parisian ones.

    “I know you have not the heart to laugh at them, for you are not
    of those who find subject for mirth in the insults offered to our
    Muse--you would rather, at any cost, hide the blemishes upon her
    snowy robes and the woful rents in her shimmering veil of light.

    “So I will content myself with calmly stating facts and retailing
    news, whereby I can preserve a dignified quiet, and can simply deal
    out remarks without theorising.

    “The day before yesterday, as I was smoking a cigar in the
    Boulevard des Italiens, Batta caught me by the arm.

    “‘What are they up to in London?’ I
    asked.

    “‘Nothing whatever. They despise music
    and poetry and drama--everything. They go to the Italian Opera
    because the Queen goes, and that’s all. I feel quite thankful
    not to be out of pocket and to have been clapped at two or three
    concerts. That is all the British hospitality I can boast of. Even
    Artot, in spite of his Philharmonic success, was horribly bored.’

    “‘And Doehler?’

    “‘Bored also.’

    “‘Thalberg?’

    “‘Is cultivating the provinces.’

    “‘Benedict----’

    “‘Encouraged by the success of his
    first attempt, is writing an English opera.’

    “‘Well, I’m off. Come to Hallé’s
    to-night, we are going to drink and have some music.’

    “M. Hallé is a young German pianist--tall, thin, and
    long-haired--who plays magnificently, and seems to get at music by
    instinct rather than by notes--that is to say, he is rather like
    you. Real talent, immense knowledge, perfect execution, are among
    the gifts we all recognise in him.

    “Hallé and Batta played Mendelssohn’s B flat sonata, then we had a
    chorus over our beer, then Beethoven’s A major sonata, of which the
    first movement excited us wildly, and the minuet and finale drove
    us to the verge of lunacy.

    “Oh you untiring vagabond! when will you return, once more to
    preside over our nights of music?

    “Between ourselves, you always had too many people at your
    gatherings--too much talk, too little listening. You, alone, wasted
    an amount of inspiration that was enough to turn one giddy, without
    all the rest of the folks in addition.

    “Do you remember that evening at Legouvé’s when--the lights put
    out--you played the C sharp minor sonata, we five lying in the
    dark on the floor? My tears and Legouvé’s, Schoelcher’s wondering
    respect, Goubeaux’s astonishment! Ah me! you were indeed sublime
    that night!

    “But to get back to news.

    “There is a glorious row toward between our Opera troupe and the
    Italian; they want to unite them in the Rue Le Pelletier. It will
    be rather a shock. Lablache against Levasseur, Rubini against
    Duprez, Tamburini against Dérivis, Grisi against Mdlle. Naudin and
    the whole lot against the big drum.

    “We mean to be there to pick up the dead and the dying. Lots of
    people find fault with the Opera orchestra, they say they do not
    keep in tune, that the right-hand side tends to get a quarter-tone
    higher than the left--which these gentlemen consider most
    unreasonable----

    “‘You seem to suffer in silence,’ one
    of them said to me the other day.

    “‘I? I did not say I suffered at all,’
    I replied. ‘First, because I never said a word, and secondly,
    because....’

    “Sometimes when they are at their wit’s end they play _Don
    Giovanni_. If Mozart could come back to this world, he would tell
    them (like Molière’s president) that he would not have it _played_.

    “The other day, Ambroise Thomas, Morel, and I were saying we would
    give five hundred francs for a good performance of Spontini’s
    _Vestale_; that set us off--we know it by heart--and we went on
    singing it till midnight.

    “But we missed you for our accompaniments.

    “I am just pouring out news as it comes into my head. Hiller has
    sent me part of his _Romilda_ from Milan. One of our enemies wished
    to throw himself off the Vendome Column the other day. He gave the
    keeper forty francs to let him go up--then changed his mind and
    walked down again.

    “Chopin is still away; they said he was very ill, but there
    is no truth in it. Dumas has just written an exquisite
    thing--_Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_--but that is out of my
    province. There! no more news.

    “My indifferentism does not extend to you and your long absence.
    Come back soon. It is high time you did, both for us and, I hope,
    for yourself too. Adieu.”

In 1840 the Government proposed celebrating the tenth anniversary of
the Revolution by exceptional ceremonies, and the Minister of the
Interior, M. de Remusat, who, like M. de Gasparin, had a soul for
music, commissioned me to write a symphony, leaving form and all
details entirely to me.

I planned a great symphony, on broad, simple lines, and as it was to be
played in the open air where delicate orchestral effects would be lost,
I engaged a military band of two hundred men.

Habeneck was anxious to conduct but, remembering the snuff trick, I
preferred to do my own conducting.

Most fortunately, I invited a large audience to the final rehearsal,
feeling sure that my work could not be properly judged on the day of
performance.

And so it proved. On the great Place de la Bastille, ten yards away,
you could make out nothing, and to make things worse, the legions of
the National Guard marched off right in the middle, to the rattle of
fifty kettledrums. That is the way music is always honoured in France
at public _fêtes_, apparently they think it is meant to please--the eye.

Towards the end of this year I made my first musical venture out of
France, as M. Snel, of Brussels, asked me to direct some of my works
for the _Société de la Grande Harmonie_ in the Belgian capital.

Nothing but a regular _coup d’état_ at home made the execution of this
plan possible. On one pretext or another, my wife had always set her
face against my leaving Paris, her real reason being a most foolish and
unfounded jealousy, for which there was absolutely no cause.

But constant accusations forced me, in time, to justify them and to
take advantage of the position with which she credited me.

Smuggling my music out of the house by degrees, I finally departed
secretly, leaving a letter of explanation and, accompanied by the lady
who has since been my constant travelling companion,[17] I went off to
Brussels.

To cut short these sad and sordid details--after many painful scenes,
an amicable separation was arranged. I often saw my wife, my affection
for her remained unchanged--indeed, the miserable state of her health
but made her dearer to me.

This is sufficient to explain my conduct to those who have only known
me since that time; I shall not recur to the subject as I am distinctly
not writing confessions.

I gave two concerts in Brussels, where opinions were, as usual, divided
about me as in Paris. Fétis chose to find fault with my (perfectly
correct) harmony, and I was rather tempted to reply to him in one of
the papers, but finally decided to stick to my invariable rule to reply
to no criticism whatsoever.

This being merely a trial trip, I arranged to spend five or six months
on tour in Germany, and therefore returned straight to Paris to give a
colossal farewell concert.

I explained my wish to M. Pillet, director of the Opera, who was quite
willing to allow me the use of the theatre.

But it was necessary to keep it secret so that Habeneck might not have
time to counterplot, as he would hardly look with a favourable eye on
anyone who supplanted him at the conductor’s desk.

I, therefore, prepared all my music and engaged my performers without
telling them where the concert would be held, and when all was ready I
asked M. Pillet to tell Habeneck that the concert was entirely in my
hands. But he dared not face his terrible chief, and it fell to my lot
to write and inform him of our arrangements.

He received my letter during a rehearsal, read it several times,
looked very black, then went down to the office and said that the plan
suited him exactly, as he wished to go into the country the day of the
concert. Still his disgust was quite evident, and it was shared by a
part of his orchestra, who thought to pay court to him by shewing it.

The concert was for the benefit of the Opera, but I was to have five
hundred francs for my share and the Opera staff were to get no extra
remuneration whatever. Mindful of my experience with the Théâtre
Italien, I determined to devote my five hundred francs to the payment
of these men, all the more readily that I felt thunder in the air in
the form of Habeneck’s savage looks, the numbers of the _Charivari_
(which cut me up tremendously) on the desks, and the constant little
confabulations that went on in odd corners.

I engaged six hundred performers from different theatres and from the
Conservatoire, and in a week managed to drill them into something like
order, how I cannot imagine.

I was on foot, baton in hand, the whole day, going from the Opera to
the Théâtre Italien, whence I engaged the chorus; thence to the Opera
Comique and to the Conservatoire to superintend different parts, for I
dared not relegate a single department to anyone else.

Then, in the foyer of the Opera, I took the stringed instruments from
eight till twelve, and the wind from twelve to four. My throat was on
fire, my voice gone, my right arm almost paralysed. One day I should
have been ill with thirst and fatigue had not a kind chorus-singer had
the humanity to bring me a large glass of hot wine.

The players of the Opera made me as much trouble as possible; they
learnt that the outside performers were to have twenty francs a piece,
so they demanded a like sum.

“Not for the money,” said they, “but for the honour of the Opera.”

“You shall have your twenty francs,” I cried; “but for heaven’s sake go
on and let me have a little peace.”

On the day of the grand rehearsal all went fairly well, except the
_Queen Mab_ scherzo, which is too dainty to be treated by so large
a body of players. Unfortunately I did not think, at the time, of
entrusting it to a small band of picked musicians, so was reluctantly
obliged to cut it altogether out of the programme.

On the day of the performance I had hoped to keep quiet until the
evening, but my friend, Leon Gatayes, came in to tell me that a plot
was being hatched by Habeneck’s partizans (who were indignant at his
being passed over) to ruin the whole affair. The drum parchments
were to be slit, the bows of the double-basses greased, and in the
middle of the concert a section of the audience was to shout for the
_Marseillaise_.

After this, needless to say, I did not take much rest. Prowling
restlessly round the Opera, I had the good luck to meet Habeneck; I
caught him by the arm.

“I hear your musicians are going to play me some tricks. I have my eye
on them.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” he answered. “I have talked to them; you need not
be afraid.”

“I am not afraid: on the contrary, I am comforting _you_. You see, if
anything happened, it would fall pretty heavily on you. But make your
mind easy; they won’t do anything.”

And they did not. My copyist had been all day in the theatre guarding
the drum and double-basses, and I myself went round to all the desks to
ensure each man having his own part.

Indeed I was made quite ashamed of myself when I got to the Dauverné
brothers; one of them looked up and said reproachfully:

“Berlioz, surely you don’t doubt us? Aren’t we decent fellows and your
friends?”

I grew quite hot and stopped my investigations, for which, it must be
owned, there really was some excuse.

Nothing went wrong and my _Requiem_ produced its due effect, but
during the interval, according to rumour, Habeneck’s cabal howled for
the _Marseillaise_. I went to the front of the stage and shouted at the
top of my lungs:

“We will _not_ play the _Marseillaise_; that is not what we are here
for,” and peace reigned once more.

Although the receipts were eight thousand five hundred francs, the sum
put aside to pay the musicians was not sufficient to fulfil my promises
to them, and I had to supplement it by three hundred and fifty out of
my own pocket, as the red ink entry in the cashier’s book at the Opera
testifies to this day.

Thus I organised the most tremendous concert Paris had ever known, and
was three hundred and fifty francs put of pocket for my pains. I was
likely to grow rich!

M. Pillet is a gentleman and I never could understand how he allowed
it; perhaps the cashier never told him.

I left for Germany a few days later on my pilgrimage. It was hard work
truly, but it was at least _musical_ hard work, and I had the untold
happiness of being safe away from the intrigues and platitudes of Paris
and among sympathetic musical people.




XXVI

HECHINGEN--WEIMAR


My tour began with trouble; I had intended giving a concert in
Brussels, as Madame Nathan-Treillet, the idol of the Bruxellois, had
kindly promised to come from Paris purposely to sing for me. But she
fell seriously ill, and we knew that not all the symphonies in the
world would make up for her absence.

When the catastrophe was announced the Grande Harmonie promptly fainted
_en bloc_, pipes went out as if from want of air, and people dispersed
groaning. In vain did I say, “Be calm! There will be no concert;
you will be spared the misery of listening to my music. Surely that
compensation is not to be despised!” It availed naught. _Their eyes
wept tears of beer et nolebant consolari_ because she came not. So my
concert went to the devil.

Time passed; I was obliged to go on leaving the poor Belgians to their
fate. My anxiety for them, however, soon melted as I embarked on my
Rhine journey and went up to Mainz, hoping to be able to arrange a
concert there.

I first went to Schott, patriarch of music publishers, who seemed
rather as if he belonged to the household of the Sleeping Beauty, his
somnolent sentences being interspersed with long silences.

“I don’t think--you hardly will be able--give a concert--there is--no
orchestra--no public--no money.”

Not being overburdened with patience, I went straight to the station
and off to Frankfort. To add fuel to my fire, the train was asleep too;
it “made haste slowly”; it did not _go_; it dawdled and, particularly
that day, made interminable organ pedal-points at each station. But
every adagio has an end, and finally I got to Frankfort--a well-built,
bright town, very much alive and up to date.

Next day, crossing the square on my way to the theatre, I came up with
some young men carrying wind-instruments and asked them--since they
evidently belonged to the orchestra--to take my card to Guhr, the chief.

“Ah,” said one, who spoke French, “we are glad to see you. M. Guhr
told us you were coming. We have done _King Lear_ twice, and though we
cannot offer you your Conservatoire orchestra, perhaps you will not be
very displeased with us.”

Guhr appeared, sharp, incisive, with snapping dark eyes and quick
gestures; it was easy to see that he would not err on the side of
indulgence with his orchestra. He spoke French but not fluently
enough for his wishes, so he tumbled over his sentences, which were
interlarded with oaths in a thick German accent, with most ludicrous
results.

The upshot of his flow of eloquence was that the two Milanollo girls
were creating such a furore that no other music would have the
slightest chance of success.

He was voluble in excuses and ended:

“What can I do, my dear fellow? These infant prodigies make money;
French Vaudevilles make money--I can’t refuse money, can I? But do stay
till to-morrow and you shall hear _Fidelio_ with Pischek and Mdlle.
Capitaine and you can give me your opinion of them.”

So it was arranged that I should go on to Stuttgart and try my fortunes
with Lindpaintner, leaving the Frankfurters to cool down after the
fever caused by the charming little sisters, whom I had praised and
applauded in Paris but who got sadly in my way in Frankfort.

_Fidelio_ was beautifully sung by Mdlle. Capitaine; she is not a
brilliant singer, but of all the women I heard in Germany I like her
best in her own style. In a box I espied my old friend, Ferdinand
Hiller, and a moment we were back on our student-comrade footing of
years before. He is at work on an oratorio _The Fall of Jerusalem_; I
am sorry that I have never been in Frankfort for one of his concerts to
hear and judge of his compositions, which I am told are of a very high
order.

My first care was to get as much information as I could on the musical
resources of Stuttgart, for I found the expenses of carrying so much
concerted music about with me something enormous and only wished to
take what I might fairly expect to be performed. I finally decided on
two symphonies, an overture and some choral pieces, leaving all the
rest with that unlucky Guhr, who seemed fated to be bothered with me
and my music in some way or other.

I had a letter of introduction to a Dr Schilling, whose title made me
shudder. I pictured an aged pedant in spectacles and red wig, armed
with a snuff-box and astride his hobbies, fugue and counterpoint,
caring for nothing but Bach and Marpurg and hating modern music in
general and mine in particular.

So much for preconceived ideas.

Dr Schilling was young, wore no spectacles, had a handsome crop of
black hair, smoked, took no snuff, never mentioned fugues or canons and
showed no dislike for modern music--not even mine.

He spoke French about as badly as I did German and our intercourse was
not precisely on the lines of Herder and Kant. I made out that I could
either apply for the loan of the theatre, which would mean freedom from
expense and ensure the presence of the King and Court or else could
engage the _Salle de la Redoute_, where I should have everything to
manage and which the King never entered.

I sought an interview with Baron von Topenheim, superintendent of the
theatre, who most kindly assured me that he would speak to the King
that evening:

“But,” he added, “I think I ought to tell you that the acoustic of the
theatre is vile and that of the _Salle de la Redoute_ is good.”

I was nonplussed and could only go and see if Lindpaintner would advise
me what to do. I do not know how to express my feelings towards him,
but at the end of ten minutes we might have been friends of ten years’
standing.

“First,” said he, “do not be deceived as to the musical importance of
our town--we have neither money nor public. (I thought of Mainz and
father Schott)! But since you are here we certainly cannot let you go
without hearing some of your works, about which we are very curious.
So you must take the _Redoute_ and as far as players are concerned, if
you will only give about eighty francs to their pension fund, they will
think it an honour to rehearse and to perform under your baton. Come
to-night and hear _Freyschütz_ and I will introduce you and you will
see that I am right.”

He was as good as his word and all my fears melted away. Here was a
young, fiery, enthusiastic orchestra. I saw that from the way they
played Weber.

They were intrepid readers, too, nothing upset, nothing disconcerted
them, they never missed a single sign of expression either. I had
chosen the _Symphonie Fantastique_ and _Francs-Juges_ and trembled for
my syncopations, my four notes against three, my unusual rhythms; but
they plunged straight in without a single mistake.

I was astounded, for with two rehearsals the whole thing was done.

It would have been grand had not illness on the day of the concert
taken away half my violins and left me with four firsts and four
seconds to fight that mass of wind and percussion. It was the more
harrowing, in that the King and Court were there in full force;
still it was intelligent and sympathetic, and the audience applauded
everything warmly except the _Pilgrim’s March_ from _Harold_, which
fell flat. I found it do so again when I separated it from the rest
of the symphony, which shows what a mistake it is to divide up some
compositions.

After the concert I was congratulated by the King, by Prince Jerome
Bonaparte and by Count Niepperg, but I am afraid Lindpaintner, whose
approval was more to me than all, hated everything but the overture. I
am sure Dr Schilling found it hideous and was quite ashamed of having
introduced such a musical free-lance to his quiet town.

However, being Councillor of State to the Prince of
Hohenzollern-Hechingen, he wrote and told His Highness of the savage he
had in tow, thinking that the said savage would find a more appropriate
setting in the wilds of the Black Forest than in civilised Stuttgart.

The savage therefore--receiving a cordial invitation from the Prince’s
Privy Councillor, Baron de Billing--and being avid of new sensations,
took his way through the snow and the great pine woods to the little
town of Hechingen, without in the least troubling about what he should
do when he got there.

I never recall this Black Forest journey without a medley of pleasant,
sad, sweet and troubled remembrances that strangely stir my heart.
The double mourning--white of the snow and black of the trees--spread
over the mountains; the cold wind’s dreary moan among the shivering,
restless pines; the ceaseless gnawing of sorrow at my heart, grown
stronger in this solitude, the bitter cold, then the arrival at
Hechingen, bright faces, gracious prince, _fêtes_, concerts, laughter,
promises to meet in Paris, then--good-bye--and once more the darkness
and the cold!

Ah! what do I suffer even yet! What demon started me thinking of it?
But that is my way--without apparent cause, I am tormented, possessed,
just as in certain electric states of the air the leaves rustle without
wind.

But back to Hechingen. The ruler of this minute principality was an
intellectual young man who seemed to have but two objects in life--to
make his people happy and to worship music.

Can one imagine a more perfect existence?

His subjects adored him and music loved him, for he understood her both
as poet and musician, and had composed some touching songs.

He had a tiny orchestra, conducted by Täglichsbeck, whom I had met five
years earlier in Paris, and who received me with open-hearted kindness.

It was most amusing to see me adapting my big orchestral works to this
little band, but, by dint of patience and goodwill all round, we did
wonders and gave _King Lear_, the _Pilgrims’ March_, the _Ball Scene_,
and other excerpts in really good style.

Still, of course, I could not help longing for wider scope, and when
the Prince came to compliment me, I said:

“Ah! I would give two years of my life if Your Highness could hear that
with my Conservatoire orchestra.”

“Yes! yes!” he said. “I know that you have an imperial orchestra that
calls you ‘Sire,’ while I am but a Highness. I mean to go to Paris and
hear it one day--one day.”

After the concert we supped at his villa, and his charming brightness
infected us all. Wishing me to hear a trio he had composed for piano,
tenor, and ’cello, Täglichsbeck took the piano, the Prince the air, and
I, amid laughter and applause, tried to sing the ’cello part. My high A
simply brought down the house.

Two days later I returned to Stuttgart.

The snow was melting on the mourning pines, stained was the fair white
mantle of the mountains--all was dreary and woe-worn--again at my heart
gnawed the worm that dieth not----

                   The rest is silence.


                   _To_ FRANZ LISZT.

    “You, my dear Liszt, know nothing of the uncertainties of the
    wandering musician. You never have a moment’s anxiety as to
    whether, when you get to a town, there will be a decent orchestra
    or a theatre ready for you. To parody Louis XIV. you can say:

    “‘Orchestra, chorus, conductor are
    myself.’

    “A grand piano and a large hall are the extent of your needs. But
    a poor travelling composer like myself depends upon a combination
    most difficult to arrange and at any moment liable to be upset. How
    much thought, precaution, fatigue it all requires. Yet look at the
    reward!

    “Think of the compensation of _playing on an orchestra_, of having
    under one’s hand this vast living instrument!

    “You _virtuosi_ are princes and kings by the grace of God, you
    are born on the steps of the throne; we composers must fight
    and conquer before we reign. Yet the difficulties and dangers
    surmounted add brilliance to our victories, and we should perhaps
    be happier than you--if we always had soldiers.

    “But this is a digression.

    “At Stuttgart I waited, hardly knowing what plans to make, until a
    favourable answer came to my letter of enquiry addressed to Weimar.
    Meanwhile I had another experience of the coldness of Germans
    towards Beethoven.

    “Lindpaintner conducted a magnificent performance of the Leonore
    overture at the Redoute Society’s concert, which elicited but the
    faintest applause, and I heard a gentleman say afterwards that he
    wished they would give Haydn’s symphonies instead of that noisy
    music without any tune in it!!!

    “Really now, we do not own such Philistines as that in Paris!

    “I went to Weimar _via_ Carlsruhe (where there was nothing to be
    done) and Mannheim--a cold, calm, respectable town, where love of
    music will never keep the inhabitants awake.

    “The younger Lachner, a real artist, both modest and talented, is
    director there; he hurriedly arranged a concert for me, and was
    deeply grieved because the ineptitude of his trombones forbade our
    giving the _Orgie_ in _Harold_.

    “Mannheim bored me horribly, and it was an intense relief to get
    away and breathe freely once more.

    “Behold me then again afloat on the Rhine--I meet Guhr, still
    swearing--I leave him--meet our friend Hiller, who tells me
    his _Fall of Jerusalem_ is ready--I leave, in company with a
    magnificent sore throat--sleep on the way--dream frightful things
    that I will not repeat--reach Weimar, thoroughly ill--Lobe and
    Chélard try in vain to prop me up--preparations for concert--first
    rehearsal--I rejoice and am cured.

    “There is something broad, cultivated, liberal about the very air
    of Weimar. Calm, luminous, peaceful, dreamy--how my heart beat as I
    paced the streets!

    “Here is the summer-house of Goethe where the late Grand Duke
    used to come to take part in the discussions of Schiller, Herder,
    and Wieland. There, a Latin inscription traced by the author
    of _Faust_. Those two attic windows, are they indeed those of
    Schiller? Was it this humble roof that sheltered the mighty
    enthusiasm of the author of _Don Carlos_? Was it right of Goethe,
    the rich and powerful minister, thus to leave his friend in
    poverty? I fear me that it was true friendship on the side of
    Schiller only--Goethe loved himself too well, he lived too long and
    death was to him a terror.

    “Schiller! Schiller! you deserved a less human friend!

    “It is one in the morning, with bitter cold and a brilliant moon. I
    stand entranced before that small dark house; all is silent in this
    city of the dead.

    “Within me surges up that passion of respect, regret, and love for
    the genius that stretches out a hand from beyond the cold dark
    grave, and lays a mighty finger on us poor obscure earth wanderers,
    and upon that humble threshold I kneel, murmuring brokenly,
    ‘Schiller! Schiller!’

    “But I am no nearer the subject of my letter, dear friend; to
    soothe myself I must think of another dweller in Weimar, the
    talented but cold Hummel.

    “That calms me; I feel better!

    “Chélard, as Frenchman, artist, and friend, has done everything
    possible to help me, and the Baron von Spiegel, the superintendent,
    has most kindly offered me the theatre and orchestra. He did not
    add the chorus, which was just as well, for I heard them trying
    to do Marschner’s _Vampire_, and a more ghastly collection of
    squallers I never heard.

    “Of the women soloists, too, the less said the better.

    “But are there words to describe the bass--Génast? Is he not a true
    artist, a born tragedian? I wish I could have stayed long enough to
    hear him in Shakespeare’s _King Lear_, which they were mounting.

    “The orchestra is good, but, to do me special honour, Chélard and
    Lobe hunted up every available extra instrument in the place; there
    was no harp to be found, but a good pianist and perfect musician,
    named Montag, kindly arranged my harp parts and played them on the
    piano.

    “Everyone was eagerly ready to help, and you may imagine the
    rare and extreme joy of being promptly understood and followed.
    I will spare you a description of the applause and recalls, the
    compliments of their Highnesses, and the many new friends who,
    waiting at the stage door, bore me off and kept me till three
    o’clock next morning.

    “Where, oh where is my modesty that I retail all this? Adieu!”




XXVII

MENDELSSOHN--WAGNER


                   _To_ STEPHEN HELLER.

    “On leaving Weimar, my dear Heller, my easiest plan seemed to be
    to go to Leipzig, but I hesitated because Felix Mendelssohn was
    musical dictator there, and, in spite of our Roman days together,
    we had since followed such divergent lines that I could not be
    sure of a sympathetic reception. Chélard, however, made me ashamed
    of my misgivings. I wrote, and Mendelssohn replied so warmly and
    promptly, bidding me welcome to Leipzig, that I could not resist
    such an invitation, but set off at once, regretfully leaving Weimar
    and my new friends.

    “My relations with Mendelssohn in Rome had been rather curious.
    At our first meeting I had expressed a great dislike to the first
    allegro in my _Sardanapalus_.

    “‘Do you really dislike it?’ he said,
    eagerly. ‘I am so glad. I was afraid you were pleased with it, and
    I think it simply horrid.’

    “Then we nearly quarrelled next day because I spoke
    enthusiastically of Gluck. He said disdainfully:

    “‘Do you like Gluck?’ as much as to
    say, ‘How can a music-maker like you appreciate the majesty of
    Gluck?’

    “I took my revenge a few days after by putting on Montfort’s piano
    a manuscript copy of an air from _Telemaco_ without the author’s
    name to it. Mendelssohn came, picked it up thinking it was a bit
    of Italian opera, and began parodying it. I stopped him in assumed
    astonishment, saying:

    “‘Hallo, don’t you like Gluck?’<span
    class="lftspc">”</span>

    “‘Gluck?’”

    “‘Why yes, my dear fellow. That is
    Gluck, not Bellini as you seem to think. You see I know him
    better than you do, and am more of your own opinion than you are
    yourself.’”

    “One day, speaking of the uses of the metronome, he broke in--

    “‘What’s the good of one? A musician
    who can’t guess the time of a piece of music at sight is a
    duffer.’”

    “I might have replied, but did not, that there were lots of
    duffers. Soon after he asked to see my _King Lear_. He read it
    through slowly, then, just as he was going to play it (his talent
    for score-reading was incomparable), said:

    “‘Give me the time.’

    “‘What for? You said yesterday that
    only duffers needed to be told the time of a piece.’

    “He did not show it, but these home thrusts annoyed him intensely.
    He never mentioned Bach without adding ironically, ‘_your little
    pupil_.’ In fact, over music he was a regular porcupine; you could
    never tell where to have him. In every other way he was perfectly
    charming and sweet-tempered.

    “In Rome I learnt to appreciate the beauties of his marvellous
    _Fingal’s Cave_. Often, worn out by the scirocco and thoroughly
    out of sorts, I would hunt him out and tear him away from his
    composition. With perfect good humour--seeing my pitiable state--he
    would lay aside his pen, and, with his extraordinary facility
    in remembering intricate scores, would play whatever I chose to
    name--he properly and soberly seated at the piano, I curled up in
    a snappy bunch on his sofa.

    “He liked me, with my wearied voice, to murmur out my setting of
    Moore’s melodies. He always had a certain amount of commendation
    for my--little songs!

    “After a month of this intercourse--so full of interest for me--he
    disappeared without saying good-bye, and I saw him no more.

    “His Leipzig letter, therefore, the more agreeably surprised me,
    for it showed an unexpected and genial kindness of heart that I
    found to be one of his most notable characteristics.

    “The Concert Society has a magnificent hall--the Gewandhaus--of
    which the acoustic is perfect. I went straight to see it, and
    stumbled into the middle of the final rehearsal of Mendelssohn’s
    _Walpurgis Nacht_.

    “I am inclined to think[18] that this is the finest thing he has
    yet done, and I hardly know which to praise most--orchestra,
    chorus, or the whole combined effect.

    “As Mendelssohn came down from his desk, radiant with success, I
    went to meet him. It was the right moment for our greetings, yet,
    after the first words, the same thought struck us both--‘Twelve
    years since we wandered day-dreaming in the Campagna!’

    “‘Are you still a jester?’ he asked.

    “‘Ah no! my joking days are past. To
    show you how sober and in earnest I am, I hereby solemnly beg a
    priceless gift of you.’

    “‘That is----’

    “‘The baton with which you conduct your
    new work.’

    “‘By all means, if I may have yours
    instead?’

    “‘It will be copper for gold, still you
    shall have it.

    “Next day came Mendelssohn’s musical sceptre, for which I returned
    my heavy oak cudgel with the following note, which I hope would not
    have disgraced the Last of the Mohicans:--

    “‘Great Chief! To exchange our
    tomahawks is our word given. Common is mine, plain is yours. Squaws
    and Pale-faces alone love ornament. May we be brethren, so that,
    when the Great Spirit calls us to the happy hunting grounds, our
    warriors may hang our tomahawks side by side in the door-way of the
    Long House.’”


                   _To_ JOSEPH D’ORTIGUE.

    “_28th February 1843._--My trade of galley-slave is my excuse for
    not having written sooner. I have been, and am still, ill with
    fatigue, the work involved in conducting rehearsals in both Leipzig
    and Dresden is incredible.

    “Mendelssohn is most kind, friendly, and attentive--a master of the
    highest rank. I can honestly say this in spite of his admiration
    for my _songs_--of my symphonies, overtures, and _Requiem_ he says
    never a word!

    “His _Walpurgis Nacht_ is one of the finest orchestral poems
    imaginable.

    “Can you believe that Schumann, the taciturn, was so electrified by
    my _Offertorium_ that he actually opened his mouth, and, shaking my
    hand, said:

    “This _Offertorium_ surpasses all.’”


                   _To_ HELLER.

    “It really pains me to see a great master like Mendelssohn worried
    with the paltry task of chorus-master. I never cease marvelling at
    his patience and politeness. His every remark is calm and pleasant,
    and his attitude is the more appreciated by those who, like myself,
    know how rare such patience is.

    “I have often been accused of rudeness to the ladies of the Opera
    chorus--a reputation which I own I richly deserve--but the very
    minute there is question of a choral rehearsal a sort of dull
    anger takes possession of me, my throat closes up, and I glare at
    the singers very much like that Gascon who kicked an inoffensive
    small boy, and, when reproached because the child had done nothing,
    replied:

    “‘But just think if he _had_!’

    “A charming little incident concluded my Leipzig visit. I had again
    been ill, and, on leaving, asked my doctor for his account. ‘Write
    me the theme of your _Offertorium_,’ he said, ‘and sign it, and I
    shall be your debtor.’

    “I hesitated, but finally did as he wished, and then, will you
    believe that I missed the chance of a charming compliment? I wrote:
    ‘To Dr Clarus.’

    “‘Oh,’ said he, ‘you have added an _l_
    to my name.’

    “I thought:

    “‘Patientibus _Carus_, sed inter doctes
    _Clarus_,’ and had not the sense to say it!

    “There are times when I am really quite idiotic.

    “Now for your questions. You ask me to tell you--

    “Is there a rival to Madame Schumann as a pianist? I believe not.

    “Is the musical tendency of Leipzig sound? I will not.

    “Is it true that the confession of faith here is ‘there is no God
    but Bach, and Mendelssohn is his prophet?’ I ought not.

    “If the public is at fault in being contented with Lortzing’s
    little operas? I cannot.

    “If I have heard any of those old five-part Masses they think so
    much of here? I know not.

    “Good-bye. Write more of your lovely capriccios, and the Lord
    preserve you from Choral Fugues!”


                   _To_ ERNST.

    “And now about Dresden. I was engaged to give two concerts there,
    and found chorus, orchestra, and a noble tenor all complete!
    Nowhere else in Germany have I happened on such wealth. Above all,
    I found a friend--devoted, energetic, and enthusiastic--Charles
    Lipinski, whom I knew in Paris. He so worked upon the musicians, by
    firing them with ambition to do better than Leipzig, that they were
    rabid for rehearsals. We had four, and they would gladly have had a
    fifth had there been time.

    “The Dresden _Kapelle_ is directed by Reissiger, of whom we know
    little in Paris, and by young Richard Wagner, who spent a long time
    with us, without, however, making himself known except by a few
    articles in the _Gazette Musicale_. He has only just received his
    appointment, and, proud and pleased, is doing his very best to help
    me.

    “He bore endless privations in France, with the added bitterness of
    obscurity, yet he returned to Saxony and boldly wrote and composed
    a five-act opera, _Rienzi_, of which the success was so great that
    he followed it up with the _Flying Dutchman_.

    “A man who could, twice over, write words and music for an opera
    must be exceptionally gifted, and the King of Saxony did well to
    give him the appointment.

    “I only heard the second part of _Rienzi_, which is too long to be
    played in one evening, and I cannot, in one hearing, pretend to
    know it thoroughly, but I particularly noted a fine prayer and a
    triumphal march.

    “The score of the _Flying Dutchman_ struck me by its sombre
    colouring, and the clever effect of some tempestuous motifs.
    But there, as in _Rienzi_, I thought he abused the use of the
    _tremolo_--sign of a certain lazy attitude of mind against which
    he must guard.

    “In spite of that, all honour to the royal remembrance that has
    saved from despair such a highly endowed young artist.

    “My concerts were successful, the second even more so than the
    first. What the public liked best were the _Requiem_--although we
    could not give the most difficult numbers of it--and the _5th May
    Cantata_, no doubt because the memory of Napoleon is as dear to the
    Germans now as to us French.[19]

    “I made the acquaintance of that wonderful English harpist,
    Parish-Alvars. He is indeed the Liszt of the harp! He produces the
    most extraordinary effects, and has written a fantasia on _Moses_
    that Thalberg has most happily arranged for the piano.

    “Why on earth does he not come to Paris?

    “When I left Dresden to go back to Leipzig, Lipinski heard that
    Mendelssohn had put the finale of _Romeo and Juliet_ in rehearsal,
    and told me that if he could get a holiday he should go over and
    hear it.

    “I thought it was a mere compliment, but judge of my consternation
    when, on the day of the concert, he turned up. He had travelled
    thirty-five leagues to hear a piece that was not given after all,
    because the singer who was entrusted with Friar Lawrence’s part
    refused to learn his notes!


                   _To_ H. HEINE.

    “So great has been my happiness in your good town of Brunswick that
    I should like to tell it all to my dearest foes instead of to you,
    my friend, to whom it can hardly give pleasure!

    “But a truce to irony; it is mere vanity that makes me begin like
    this, taking a leaf out of your book--inimitable satirist!

    “How often in our talks have I regretted that nothing would make
    you serious, that nothing would stop the restless working of those
    feline claws, even when you were under the delusion that they were
    safely sheathed in your velvet paws--you tiger-cat!

    “Yet look at the sensitive, delicate imagery of your writings--for
    you _can_ sing major when you choose; at your enthusiasm when
    you let yourself go; at your tender hidden love for your old
    grandmother, Germany!

    “She, too, speaks of you with wistful tenderness; her elder sons
    are dead and gone; there remains but you, whom she calls, with a
    smile, her naughty boy.

    “It would be easy for you to make splendid travesties of my
    Brunswick visit, yet such is my fearless confidence in you, that to
    you I mean to tell everything.

    “That ideal family of musicians, the Müllers, received me and
    arranged my concert. I counted altogether seven of them, brothers,
    sons, and nephews, and never in all my travels did I see so devoted
    and impassioned a set of men.

    “As soon as they grasped the chief difficulties of my symphonies
    (which they did at the first rehearsal), their progress between
    each meeting was simply incredible. On my expressing surprise, I
    found that they were deceiving me about the time, and that the
    whole orchestra actually arrived each morning an hour before I did
    to practise the intricate passages.

    “At Zinkeisen’s request we actually dared to try _Queen Mab_, which
    I had never hitherto dared do in Germany. ‘We will practise so
    hard,’ said he, ‘that we _must_ do it.’

    “He did not misjudge his colleagues; my dainty little lady in her
    microscopic car, drawn by humming gnats at full gallop, disported
    herself with all her tricksey caprices--to the delight of the good
    Brunswickers.

    “You--own brother to fairies and will-o’-the-wisps and their chosen
    poet laureate--will realise my misgivings; but never did my tiny
    invisible queen glide more happily and gaily through her world of
    silent harmonies.

    “Then, in contrast, with what magnificent fury did they not seize
    on the _Orgie_ in _Harold_.

    “There was something absolutely terrifying and supernatural in
    their diabolic rhythm as they bounded, roared, and clashed. Ah, you
    poets! No joy is yours equal to the joy of conducting!

    “I longed to fold the whole orchestra in one comprehensive embrace,
    but all I could do was cry in French--

    “‘Gentlemen, you are sublime! You are
    stupendous brigands!’

    “The concert was crowded and the audience quite carried away;
    hardly was the last chord struck when a frantic noise shook the
    hall; it was compounded of the shouts of the listeners, the
    discordant blare of the wind instruments, the tapping of bows on
    the violins, and the clang of percussion instruments.

    “At first I felt perfectly savage at this ruin to my finale, but I
    calmed down when George Müller, laden with flowers, stepped forward
    and said in French:

    “‘Monsieur, allow me to offer these in
    the name of the Ducal Kapelle.’

    “The shouts and noise redoubled, my baton fell from my hand, and my
    head whirled.

    “Hardly had I left the theatre when I was invited to a supper given
    in my honour by artists and amateurs. There were a hundred and
    fifty guests.

    “Toasts, speeches in French and German, to which I responded as
    well as I could, then a most musical and effective hurrah was
    chanted by all in chorus. The basses began on D, tenors on A, and
    the ladies following on F♯, made up the chord of D major, to which
    succeeded the sub-dominant, tonic, dominant, tonic. It was most
    beautiful, most worthy of a really musical nation. Will you laugh
    and call me a great simpleton for repeating all this, dear Heine? I
    must candidly own that I enjoyed it.

    “From Brunswick I journeyed on to your native city of Hamburg,
    where I again had the pleasure of a crowded house and appreciative
    audience, and made many friends among the orchestra. Krebs alone
    was reserved in his praise. ‘My dear fellow,’ said he, ‘in a few
    years your music will be all over Germany, and will be popular,
    and that will be an awful misfortune! Think of the imitations, the
    eccentricities, the style it will let us in for! For Art’s sake it
    were better you had never been born!!’

    “Let us hope my poor symphonies are not as contagious as he thinks.
    And so, O maker of poems, adieu!”

From Hamburg I went to Berlin and Hanover, finishing at Darmstadt where
the Grand Duke insisted not only on my taking the full receipts from
my concert (so far Weimar--city of artists--was the only one that had
extended to me this courtesy) but, in addition, refused to let me pay
any of the expenses.

Everywhere I met with success and made friends.

Thus ended the longest and perhaps the most arduous pilgrimage ever
taken by a musician; its memory will, to me, be ever green.

How can I thank thee, Germany, noble foster-mother to the sons of
music? How express my gratitude, admiration, and regret? I know not. I
can but bow before thee humbly and murmur brokenly--

    “Vale Germania, alma parens!”




XXVIII

A COLOSSAL CONCERT


When I got back to Paris, I found M. Pillet planning a revival of _Der
Freyschütz_. Now, by the rules of the Opera every word must be sung and
as there are spoken dialogues in Weber’s opera he engaged me to set
them in the form of recitations.

“It is all wrong,” I said, “but as that is the only condition on
which it will be played and as, if I don’t do it, you will give it
to someone who does not know Weber as I do, I accept but with one
stipulation--that you change neither music nor libretto.”

“Certainly,” he replied, “do you suppose I would revive _Robin des
Bois_?”

“Very well, then I will get to work at once. How are you arranging the
parts?”

“Madame Stolz, Agatha; Mdlle. Dobré, Annette; Duprez, Max.”

“I bet he won’t take it,” I said.

“Why not?”

“You will see soon enough.”

“Bouché will do well for Gaspard.”

“And the Hermit?”

“Oh--well--” said he, awkwardly, “you know the Hermit isn’t much use, I
was going--to cut him out.”

“H’m! Really? Yet you are going to act _Freyschütz_ and not _Robin des
Bois_. Evidently, since we sha’n’t agree, it is better for me to retire
at once for I can’t stand that sort of correction.”

“Dear me! how wholesale you are in your notions. Very well, we will
keep the Hermit, we will keep everything, lock, stock, and barrel.”

Then my troubles began. The actors would make their recitations as slow
and stately as a tragedy; Duprez,--as I foretold--although ten years
before he had been a light tenor and had managed Max perfectly--found
it impossible to adapt his fine tenor voice to the music and demanded
all sorts of unheard-of transpositions and alterations. I cut them
short by refusing to disintegrate the rôle and it was handed over to
Marié.

Then nothing would do but they must have a ballet, and as I could not
stop it I tried to arrange a sort of scene from Weber’s _Invitation to
the Waltz_; but that was not enough, so the dancers themselves took
it into their heads that some bits out of my symphonies would come in
nicely.

Pillet agreed. I did not; and, to stop discussion, I said:

“Now look here! I entirely object to introducing into _Der Freyschütz_
music that is not Weber’s. To prove that I am not unreasonable, go and
ask Dessauer, who is over there; I will abide by his decision.”

At Pillet’s first words Dessauer turned sharply to me:

“Oh, Berlioz! don’t do that!”

That ended the matter for the time and the opera was a success. But
when I went to Russia they cut and chopped and gnawed it until it was
simply a deformity.

And _how_ they play what is left now! What a conductor! What a chorus!
What utterly sleepy, disgraceful ineptitude and misinterpretation of
everything by everybody!

When will a new Christ come to purge our temple and drive out the money
changers with a scourge!

       *       *       *       *       *

I returned to my treadmill--journalism--once more, and oh! the horror
of it!

The misery of writing to order an article on nothing in particular--or
on things that, as far as I was concerned, simply did not exist since
they excited in me no feeling of any description whatsoever. Long ago
I remember spending three days over a critique without being able to
write one word. I cannot remember the subject but I well remember my
torments.

I strode up and down, my brain on fire; I gazed at the setting sun, the
neighbouring gardens, the heights of Montmartre--my thoughts a thousand
miles away.

Then, as I turned and saw that confounded white paper without a line on
it, I flew into the wildest rage.

My unoffending guitar leant against the wall. I kicked it to bits; my
pistols stared at me from the wall with big round eyes. I gazed back,
then, tearing my hair, burst into burning tears.

That soothed me somewhat, I turned those staring pistols face to the
wall and picked up my poor guitar which gave forth a plaintive wail.
Then my six-year-old boy, with whom I had unjustly found fault, tapped
at the door. As I did not answer he cried:

“Father, is you friends?”

“Yes, yes, my boy, I is friends!” and I flew to let him in. I took him
on my knee and laid his fair head on my shoulder; we dropped asleep
together and my article was forgotten. Next morning I managed to write
something. That is fifteen years ago and my martyrdom still lasts! It
is not that I mind work. I can grind at rehearsals for hours at a time;
can spend my nights in correcting proofs; can and will do anything and
everything that pertains to my work as a musician.

But to eternally pamphleteer for a living! It is cruel!


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “_3rd October 1844._--I read in the _Débats_ of your splendid
    agricultural success and can imagine how much work and
    perseverance it involves. You are a kind of Robinson Crusoe in
    your island,[20] and when the sun shines I long to be with you, to
    breathe the spicy air, to follow you from field to field, to listen
    with you to the sweet silence of your lonely groves--our affection
    is so sure, so whole-hearted, so perfect!

    “Yet when dull days come and mists rise, the fever of Paris seizes
    me once more and I feel that here only is life possible. But can
    you believe that a strange sort of torpid resignation with regard
    to things musical has taken possession of me? It is as well, for
    this indifference saves my strength for the time when a passionate
    struggle may become necessary.

    “You have doubtless heard of the marvellous success of my _Requiem_
    in St Petersburg. Romberg most bravely tackled the enormous expense
    and, thanks to the generosity of the Russian aristocracy, made a
    profit of five thousand francs. Give me a despotic government as
    nursing mother of Art!

    “If you could but be here this winter! I long to see you. I seem to
    be going down hill so rapidly, life is so short! The end is often
    before my eyes now and I clutch with frenzied eagerness at the
    flowers beside my path as I slip quickly past.

    “There was a rumour that I was to succeed Habeneck at the Opera,
    it is a dictatorship that I should enjoy in the interests of
    Art. But, for that, Habeneck would have to be translated to the
    Conservatoire, where Cherubini still goes to sleep. Perhaps when I
    am old and incapable I shall go to the Conservatoire. At present I
    am too young to dream of it!”

I was railing more than usual at my hard fate when Strauss proposed
that we should give a concert at the close of the 1844 Exhibition, in
the empty building.

It was a tremendous undertaking, for his original intention was to have
also a ball and a banquet to the exhibitors. But, owing to the fixed
idea of M. Delessert, chief of the police, that plots and risings were
in the air, we were forced to reduce it to a classical concert for me
and a popular promenade concert next day for Strauss.

Rushing all over Paris I engaged nearly every musician of any
consequence and gathered a body of 1022 performers--all paid except the
singers from the lyric theatres, who helped me for love of music.

The rehearsals and general arrangements were most arduous and my
anxiety lest we should fail nearly killed me. The great day, the 1st
August, came and at noon (the concert began at one o’clock) I went to
the Exhibition, noticing with pleasure the stream of carriages all
converging on the Champs Elysées. Everything inside the building was
in perfect order, everyone in his or her appointed place, and my good
friend and indefatigable librarian, M. Rocquemont, assured me that all
would go perfectly.

Musical delirium seized me, I thought no more of public, receipts or
deficit, but was just raising my baton to begin when a violent smashing
of wood announced that the people had burst the barriers and filled the
hall. This meant success and I joyfully tapped my desk, crying:

“Saved!”

To direct my mass of performers I had Tilmant to conduct the wind,
Morel[21] the percussion instruments, and five chorus-masters, one in
the centre and four at the corners to guide those singers who were out
of my range. Thus there were seven deputy-conductors, whose arms rose
and fell with mine with incredible precision.

The Blessing of the Daggers from the _Huguenots_ was given with an
imposing effect that surpassed my expectations. I wished Meyerbeer
could have heard it. It worked upon me so that my teeth chattered and
I shook with nervous ague. The concert had to be stopped while they
brought me some punch and a change of clothes, and by making a little
screen of the harps in their linen covers, I was enabled to dress right
before the audience without being seen.

The concert finished triumphantly with the utmost satisfaction to
artists and audience but, as I went out, I had the gruesome pleasure
of seeing the hospital authorities counting our receipts and walking
off with the _eighth gross_--that is, four thousand francs--which left
me, when all was paid, with eight hundred francs for all my trouble and
anxiety.

This mad experiment was hardly over when M. Amussat, my anatomy master
and friend, called.

“Why, Berlioz!” he said, “what on earth is the matter? You are as
yellow as a guinea and look thoroughly overdone.”

He felt my pulse.

“You are on the verge of typhoid and must be bled.”

“Very well, do it now.”

He did, and then said:

“You will please leave Paris at once and go to the Riviera or somewhere
south by the sea and forget all these exciting topics. Be off at once.”

With my eight hundred francs I went to Nice. It moved me strangely to
see those haunts of thirteen years earlier--the days of my youth.

I bathed, explored the well-known cliffs, paid my respects to the
old cannon, still asleep in the sun; the room in which I wrote _King
Lear_ was let to an English family so I found shelter in an old tower
adjoining the Ponchettes Rocks. After a month’s lotus-eating I turned
my face once more to Paris and took up again my Sisyphus burden.

After giving some concerts in the circus of the Champs Elysées, which
fatigued me greatly I again took a rest on the Mediterranean shores
then gave some more concerts in Marseilles, Lyons and Lille of which
I have given a full account in my _Grotesques de la Musique_. Shortly
afterwards I started on my tour through Austria, Bohemia and Hungary.




XXIX

THE RAKOCZY MARCH


Of my journey from Paris to Vienna I only have two distinct
impressions--one of a violent pain in my side that I thought would be
the death of me and the other of a species of god I saw at Augsbourg.
This worthy man had founded a sort of neo-christianity which was rather
popular: he looked a decent sort of fellow.

At Ratisbon the steamer had gone, so I was obliged to wait two days and
then go on in a diligence, which made me feel as if I had gone back
into the Dark Ages. At Linz, however, I set foot on a fine steam-boat,
and found myself once more in A.D. 1845.

But I had time for reflection and could not help wondering why on earth
we cannot all spell the names of places alike. There was I, hunting
through a German map. Linz was graciously pleased to be the same in
both languages, but where was Ratisbon? Who could possibly find it
masquerading as Regensburg?

What should we say to the Germans if they persisted in calling Lyons,
Mittenberg, and Paris, Triffenstein?

On landing at Vienna I at once got an idea of the passion for music of
the Austrians.

The custom-house officer examining my trunks caught sight of the name
on them and asked:

“Where is he? Where is he?”

“I am he, monsieur.”

“_Mein Gott_, M. Berlioz, where in the world have you been? We have
been waiting for you a week and couldn’t think what had become of you.”

I thanked my worthy friend as well as my limited vocabulary would
allow, and could not help thinking that my non-appearance would never
give rise to similar anxiety at the Paris Douane.

The first concert I went to was one in the Riding School, given by
nearly a thousand performers--most of them amateurs--for the benefit of
the Conservatoire, which has no, or very little, Government support.
The verve and precision with which that musical crowd rendered Mozart’s
delicate _Flauto Magico_ overture quite astonished me, I had not
believed it possible.

I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Nicolaï, conductor of
the Kärnthnerthor Theatre; he has the three gifts necessary--to my
mind--for a perfect director. He is an experienced, enthusiastic
composer, has perfect intuition for rhythms and clear-cut and precise
mechanism. Finally, he is a clever organiser, sparing neither time nor
trouble; hence the wonderful unity and perfection of the Kärnthnerthor
orchestra.

He arranged sacred concerts in the _Salle des Redoutes_ similar to
ours in Paris. There I heard a scena from _Oberon_, a fine symphony of
Nicolaï’s own and the incomparable B flat of Beethoven.

It is in this fine hall that, thirty years since, Beethoven gave his
masterpieces--now worshipped by Europe, but then despised by the
Viennese, who crowded to hear Salieri’s operas! How my knees trembled
as I stood at the desk where once _he_ had stood! Nothing is changed;
the desk I used is the very one that he had used, by that staircase he
had come up to receive the applause of his few admirers, looked upon by
the rest of the audience as fanatics in search of eccentricity.

For recognition Beethoven had to wait, but how he suffered!

To my great delight Pischek, the splendid baritone I had met and
admired in Frankfort, suggested that he should make his Viennese début
at my concert.

He had improved immensely; somehow his voice always gave rise in me to
a sort of exaltation or intoxication which, now, was intensified by its
splendid compass, passion and exquisite sweetness.

No wonder that his success in a great ballad by Uhland (which bore
no resemblance to the inanities we call ballads in Paris) was
instantaneous and, as an encore, he gave a song that drove the audience
almost frantic. If only he would learn French what a furore he would
make in Paris!

My reception by all in Vienna--even by my fellow-ploughmen, the
critics--was most cordial; they treated me as a man and a brother, for
which I am heartily grateful.

After my third concert at a grand supper my friends presented me with a
silver-gilt baton, and the Emperor sent me eleven hundred francs with
the rather odd compliment, “Tell Berlioz I was really amused.”

The rest of my doings, are they not written in the newspapers of the
day?

The first thing I did on leaving Vienna for Pesth was to get into
trouble with the Danube, which, instead of remaining decently within
its banks, chose to overflow and inundate that muddy Slough of Despond
by courtesy called the Emperor’s highway. Only with an extra team of
horses had we been able to make way even so far, but at midnight I was
aroused from my resigned drowsiness by the stoppage of the carriage and
the boiling of waters all round.

The driver had gone straight into the river, and dared not stir a step.
The water rose steadily.

There was a Hungarian captain in the coupé who had spoken to me once or
twice through the little window between us; it was my turn to speak now:

“Captain!”

“Sir?”

“Don’t you think we are going to be drowned?”

“Yes, I do. Have a cigar.”

His calm insolent coolness made me long to smash his head in; in a
fury I took his cigar and puffed violently. Still the water rose and
the desperate driver turned, and at the risk of spilling us all in the
river, climbed up the bank and took us straight-way--into a lake. This
time I thought must be the end of all and I called out to the soldier:

“Captain, have you another cigar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me have it quick, for it’s all up with us now!”

But it was not, for an honest country man passing by (where the devil
could he have been going in such weather at such a time of night?)
extricated us and gave our unhappy Phæton directions whereby we made
our way to Pesth. At least it was a big town of which I asked my
captain the name.

“Buda,” said he.

“What? In my map the town opposite Pesth is called Ofen. Look.”

“Oh yes, that’s Buda. Ofen is the German name for it.”

“H’m, I see. German maps are as cleverly arranged as French ones; but I
think they might give us both names anyway.”

On reaching Pesth I had a little pleasure party all to myself, in
accordance with a promise made to myself while soaking in the Danube
mud. I took a bath, drank two glasses of Tokay and slept twenty
hours--not, however, without visions of boiling waters and lakes of
mud. After which I set out on the war-path of concert-promoting,
greatly helped by the kindness of Count Raday, superintendent of the
National Theatre.

Now the Hungarians are nothing if not patriotic. In every shop window
things are ticketed _hony_ (national) and, by the advice of an amateur
in Vienna, who had brought me a volume of Hungarian national airs, I
chose the Rakoczy March and arranged it as it now stands as finale to
the first part of my _Faust_.

No sooner did the rumour spread that I had written _hony_ music than
Pesth began to ferment.

How had I treated it? They feared profanation of that idolised melody,
which for so many years had made their hearts beat with lust of glory
and battle and liberty; all kinds of stories were rife, and at last
there came to me M. Horwath, editor of a Hungarian paper--who, unable
to curb his curiosity, had gone to inspect my march at the copyist’s.

“I have seen your Rakoczy score,” he said, uneasily.

“Well?”

“Well; I feel horribly nervous about it.”

“Bah! why?”

“Your motif is introduced _piano_, and we are used to hearing it
started _fortissimo_.”

“Yes, by the gipsies. Is that all? Don’t be alarmed. You shall have
such a forte as you never heard in your life. You can’t have read the
score carefully; remember the end is everything.”

All the same, when the day came my throat tightened, as it did in
times of great excitement, when this devil of a thing came on. First
the trumpets gave out the rhythm, then the flutes and clarinets, with
a _pizzicato_ accompaniment of strings--softly outlining the air--the
audience remaining calm and judicial. Then, as there came a long
_crescendo_, broken by the dull beats of the big drum (as of distant
cannon) a strange restless movement was perceptible among them--and,
as the orchestra let itself go in a cataclysm of sweeping fury and
thunder, they could contain themselves no longer.

Their overcharged souls burst with a tremendous explosion of feeling
that raised my hair with terror.

I lost all hope of making the end audible,[22] and in the encore it was
no better; hardly could they contain themselves long enough to hear a
portion of the coda.

Horwath, in his box, was like one possessed, and I could not resist a
smiling glance at him to ask--

“Are you still afraid or are you content with your _forte_?”

It was lucky that this was the end of the programme, for certainly
these excitable people would have listened to nothing more.

As I mopped my face in the little room set apart for me, a poorly
dressed man slipped quietly in. He threw himself upon me, his eyes full
of tears, and stammered out:

“Ah, monsieur--the Hungarian--poor man--not speak French--Forgive,
excited--understood your cannon--Yes, big battle--Dogs of Germans!”
Striking his chest vehemently--“In heart of me you stay--ah,
French--Republican--know to make music of Revolution!”

I cannot describe his frenzy; it was almost sublime.

After that, of course, the Rakoczy ended every concert, and on leaving
I had to present the town with my MS.

Later on I sent them a revised version, as some young Hungarians did
me the honour to present me with a silver crown of most exquisite
workmanship.

When I got back to Vienna, the amateur who had given me the idea of
writing the march came to me in comical terror.

“For mercy’s sake,” he begged, “never tell that I gave you the idea.
The excitement of it has reached Vienna, and I should get into dreadful
trouble if it were known.”

Of course I promised silence, but, as this terrible affair is long
since done with, I may now add that he was called---- No, I only wished
to frighten him. I won’t tell!

       *       *       *       *       *

I had not intended to include Prague in my round, but someone sent me
the Prague _Musical Gazette_ with three appreciative articles on my
_King Lear_ by Dr Ambros. I wrote to thank him and mentioned my doubts
of my reception by his fellow-citizens who, I had been told, would hear
no one but Mozart. His kind reply swept away my misgivings and made
me as eager to go as I had hitherto been the reverse. Of Prague my
recollections are golden. I gave six concerts, and at the last, had the
great joy of having Liszt to hear my _Romeo and Juliet_.

At the close of the performance as I begged him to be my interpreter in
thanking the artists for their devotion and patience in spending three
weeks over my works, two or three of them came up to us and spoke to
him.

“My office is changed,” he said, turning to me; “these gentlemen
request me to convey to you their thanks for the pleasure you have
given them and their joy in your pleasure.”

This was indeed a red-letter day for me! There are not many such in my
life.

As the music lovers of Vienna had given me a banquet and a silver-gilt
baton, those of Prague gave me a supper and a silver cup.

But this same cup poured out such floods of champagne that Liszt, who
had made a charming and touching speech in my honour, was shipwrecked
therein. At two o’clock in the morning Belloni, his secretary, and I
were hard at work in the streets of Prague trying to persuade him to
wait till daylight to fight a Bohemian who had drunk more than he had.
We were rather anxious about him, as he had to give a concert at noon
next day, and at half-past eleven was still asleep. At length he was
awakened, jumped into a carriage, walked on to the platform, and played
as I verily believe he had never played before. There certainly is a
Providence over--pianists.

I cannot express my tender regrets for those good Bohemians.

    “O Prague! when shall I see thee again?”




XXX

PARIS--RUSSIA--LONDON


While trailing round Germany in my old post-chaise I composed my
_Damnation de Faust_. Each movement is punctuated by memories of the
place where it was written. For instance, the Peasant’s Dance was
written by the light of a shop gas-jet one night when I had lost myself
in Pesth, and I got up in the middle of the night in Prague to write
the song of the angelic choir.

Thinking that my foreign tour might have enhanced my home reputation,
on my return to Paris I ventured to put it in rehearsal, going to
enormous expense for copying and for the hire of the Opera Comique.
Fatal reasoning! The indifference of the Parisians to art had increased
by leaps and bounds, the weather in November 1846 was vile, and they
preferred their warm homes to the unfashionable Opera Comique.

It was twice performed to half empty houses and elicited no more
attention than if I had been the least of Conservatoire students.
Nothing in all my career has wounded me as this did. The lesson was
cruel but useful; I vowed that never again would I trust to the tender
mercies of Paris.

I did not keep my vow, for later on I could not resist letting it hear
my _Childhood of Christ_, which proved a great success.

[Berlioz does not mention the domestic troubles that added greatly to
his dejection. His wife was paralysed and his son Louis, brought up
in a divided household, naturally gave him anxiety, as the following
letter shows]:


                   _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

    “_October 1846._--Your mother is a little better, but she is still
    in bed and unable to speak. As the least agitation would be fatal
    to her, do not write to her as you have done to me.

    “You talk of being a sailor. Do you wish to leave me? for, once
    at sea, God knows when I shall see you again. Were I but free I
    would go with you, and we would seek our fortunes in India or some
    far-off land, but to travel one must have money, and only in France
    can I get my living--such as it is.

    “I am speaking to you as if you were grown up. You must think over
    what I say and you will understand. But remember that, whatever
    happens, I am and always shall be your best and most devoted
    friend. It would indeed be sad if, when you came to be twenty years
    of age, you found yourself useless both to society and yourself.
    Good-bye, dear child. My heartfelt love.”

_Faust_ was my ruin. After two days of unutterable misery I decided to
retrieve my fortunes by a tour in Russia, if I could but collect enough
money first to pay my debts. Then did my kind friends rally round me
and apply healing balm to my wounded spirit.

M. Berlin advanced me a thousand francs from the _Débats_ funds; one
friend lent me five hundred, others six or seven; M. Friedland, a young
German I had met in Prague, twelve hundred, and Hetzel a thousand.

So, helped on all sides, I was able, with a clear conscience, to leave
for Russia on the 14th February 1847, feeling that few men have been
so blessed as I in the devoted generosity and kind-heartedness of my
single-minded friends.

The time for concert-giving in Russia is Lent--March--as then the
theatres are all closed. The cold was intense, and during my whole
fortnight’s journey I never lost sight of the snow, and made only one
short stop in Berlin to beg a letter of introduction to the Empress
of Russia from her brother, the King of Prussia, which, with his
invariable kindness, he sent me at once.

Before leaving Paris, Balzac said to me:

“Be sure at Tilsit to hunt up the post-master, M. Nernst. He is a
clever, well-read man and may be useful to you.”

So at Tilsit I walked into his office and there found a big man perched
on a high stool.

“M. Nernst?” I said, taking off my hat.

“Yes, monsieur; to whom have I the honour of speaking?”

“To Hector Berlioz.”

“No! not really?” He bounced off his stool and landed before me, cap in
hand.

How well I remember my poor father’s happy pride in this story! “Not
really?” he would repeat, and his laughter would ring out again and
again.

We had a cordial meeting-ground in our mutual friendship with Balzac,
and after some hours’ rest I set out, warmed and comforted, in a
horrible iron sledge wherein I endured a martyrdom till, four days
later, I reached St Petersburg.

Hardly had I shaken off the traces of my journey when M. Lenz, an old
acquaintance, came to take me to Count Michael Wielhorski, from whom I
received a most flattering welcome. He and his brother, by their love
of art, their great connections and immense fortune, have made their
palace a sort of little Ministry of Fine Arts.

By them I was introduced to Romberg, General Guédéonoff, superintendent
of the Imperial theatres, and General Lwoff, aide-de-camp to the
Emperor, a composer of rare talent.

Not to go into too many details, my visits both to St Petersburg and
Moscow were the greatest success financially as well as artistically.
My first concert (at which I was summoned, hot and dishevelled with
my exertions, to the box of the Emperor, who was most gracious) made
eighteen thousand francs; the expenses were six thousand, the balance
was mine.

I could not resist murmuring, as I turned to the south-west, “Ah, dear
Parisians!”

I must just recall one of my red-letter days--the performance of _Romeo
and Juliet_ in St Petersburg.

No wretched bargaining, no limitation of rehearsals here!

I asked General Guédéonoff:

“How many rehearsals can your Excellency allow me?”

“How many? Why! as many as you want. They will rehearse until you are
satisfied.”

And they did; consequently it was royally, imperially, organised and
performed.

The vast theatre was full; diamonds, uniforms, helmets shone and
glittered everywhere. I, too, was in good form, and conducted without a
single mistake--a thing that, in those days, did not happen often.

I was recalled more times than I could count, but I must own that I
paid small heed to the public, the divine Shakespearean poem that I
myself had made affected me so deeply that, the moment I was free, I
fled to a quiet room in the theatre, where my dear, good Ernst found me
in floods of tears.

“Ah! nerves!” said he, “I know too well what it is.”

And, holding my head, he let me sob like a hysterical girl for a
quarter of an hour.

Despite its warm reception, I doubt that my symphony was rather over
the heads of the audience, therefore, when it was to be repeated, on
the advice of the cashier of the theatre, I added two scenes from
_Faust_.

I heard of a funny incident at this second performance. One lady
present sat and was bored with most exemplary patience; she would not
have it thought that she could not understand this feast of music.
Proud of having stayed to the end, she said, as she left her box:

“Yes, it is a tremendous thing, but quite intelligible. In that grand
introduction I could absolutely _see Romeo driving up in his gig_!!!”

I spoke of Ernst just now--great artist and noble friend. He has been
compared to Chopin--a comparison both true and false.

Chopin could never bear the restraints of time, and, I think, carried
his independence too far; he simply _could not_ play in time. Ernst,
while employing _rubato_, kept it within artistic limits, retaining
always a dignified sway over his own caprices.

In Chopin’s compositions all the interest centres in the piano, his
orchestral concerto accompaniments are cold and practically useless.
Ernst is distinguished by quite the opposite--his concerted music is
not only brilliant for the solo instrument, but the symphonic interest
is thoroughly grateful and sustained.

Even Beethoven allowed the orchestra to overpower the soloist, and, to
my mind, the perfect system is that adopted by Ernst, Vieuxtemps and
Liszt.

Chopin was the delicate refined virtuoso of small gatherings, of groups
of intimate friends. Ernst was master of crowds; he loved them, and,
like Liszt, was at his very best with two thousand hearers to conquer.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Great Feast being over, there was nothing to keep me in St
Petersburg, which, however, I left with great regret.

Passing through Riga, I thought I would give a concert. The receipts
hardly covered the expenses (I think I was twelve francs to the
good), but it procured me the friendship of some pleasant artists and
amateurs, amongst them the post-master, who turned out to be a constant
reader of my newspaper articles. He looked me dubiously up and down,
and said:

“You don’t _look_ a firebrand, but from your articles I should have
expected quite a different sort of man, for, devil take me! you write
with a dagger, not a pen!”

The King of Prussia wishing to hear my _Faust_, I arranged to stay
ten days in Berlin. The Opera House was placed at my disposal, and I
was promised half the gross receipts. The orchestra and choruses were
capital, but I cannot say as much for the soloists, who were feeble in
the extreme. The King of Thule ballad was hissed, but whether this was
due to me or to the singer I cannot say--probably both--for the stalls
were filled with a malicious crowd who objected to a Frenchman having
the audacity to set to music a German classic.

However, by the time we got to the _Danse des Sylphes_ I was in a bad
temper and refused the encore they gave it.

The royalties were apparently satisfied; the Princess of Prussia said
many nice things and the King sent me the Red Eagle by Meyerbeer and
invited me to dinner at Sans Souci. I met with a cordial reception,
gave him news of his sister in Russia and finally ventured to say after
dinner was over: “Ah, sire, you are the true king of artists. Without
you could Spontini and Meyerbeer have gained a hearing? Was it not at
your suggestion that Mendelssohn composed his _Antigone_ music? Did not
you commission him to write the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_? Does not
your known love of art incite us all to do our best?”

“Well, perhaps so,” he answered, “but there’s no need to say so much
about it.”

But it is true. Now there are two other sovereigns who share his
interest--the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar and the blind young King of
Hanover.

       *       *       *       *       *

On returning to France I took my boy to see his relations at La Côte
Saint-André. Poor Louis! how happy he was; petted by relations and old
servants and wandering about the fields, his little hand thrust in
mine.

In a letter I had yesterday he says that that fortnight was the
happiest of his life. And now he is at the blockade of the Baltic, on
the eve of a naval battle--that hell upon the sea! The mere thought of
it maddens me; yet he chose it himself--this noble profession. But we
did not expect war then.

Dear noble boy! at this minute they may be bombarding Bomarsund--it
will not bear thinking of, I must turn to other things--I can write no
more.

       *       *       *       *       *

From Paris and its usual weary round of jealousy and intrigue, it was a
comfort to turn to London, whence I received the offer of an engagement
to conduct the grand English Opera for Jullien. In his usual rôle of
madman he got together orchestra, chorus, principals and theatre,
merely forgetting a repertoire. To cover expenses he would have had to
take ten thousand francs a night and this he expected to net out of an
English version of _Lucia di Lammermoor_!


                   _To_ TAJAN ROGÉ of St Petersburg.

    “LONDON, _November 1847_.--Dear Rogé,--Your letter should
    have been answered sooner had it not been for the thousand and one
    worries that overwhelmed me the minute I set foot in Paris.

    “You can have no idea of my existence in that infernal city that
    thinks itself the home of Art.

    “Thank heaven I have escaped to England and am, financially, more
    independent than I dared to hope.

    “Jullien, the manager here, is a most intrepid spirit and seems to
    understand English people; he has made his fortune and is going
    to make mine, he says. I let him have his own way since he does
    nothing unworthy of art and good taste--but I have my doubts.

    “I have come _alone_ to London; you may guess my reasons. I badly
    needed a little freedom which, so far, I have never been able to
    get. Not one _coup d’état_ but a whole series was necessary before
    I succeeded in shaking off my bonds. Yet now, although I am so busy
    with rehearsals, my loneliness seems very odd.

    “Since I am in a confidential mood, will you believe that I had
    a queer little love affair in St Petersburg with a girl--now
    don’t laugh like a full orchestra in C major! It was poetic,
    heart-rending, and perfectly innocent.

    “Oh, our walks! oh, the tears I shed when, like Faust’s Marguerite,
    she said: ‘What can you see in me--a poor girl so far beneath you?’
    I thought I should die of despair when I left St Petersburg, and
    was really ill when I found no letter from her in Berlin. She _did_
    promise to write, probably by now she is married.

    “I can picture it all again--the Neva banks, the setting sun. In a
    maze of passion I pressed her hand to my heart, and sang her the
    Love Song from _Romeo_.

    “Ah me! not two lines since I left her.

    “Good-bye; you at least will write to me.”


                   _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL.

    “76 HARLEY STREET, LONDON, _31st November 1847_.--Jullien
    asks me confidentially to get your report on the success of Verdi’s
    new opera.[23] We begin next week with the _Bride of Lammermoor_,
    which can hardly help going well with Madame Gras and Reeves. He
    has a beautiful voice, and sings as well as this awful English
    language will allow.

    “I had a warm reception at one of Jullien’s concerts, but shall not
    begin my own until January.

    “Your friend, M. Grimblot, has given me the _entrée_ to his club,
    but heaven only knows what amusement is to be found in an English
    club. Macready gave a magnificent dinner in my honour last week;
    he is charming and most unassuming at home, though they say he is
    terrible at rehearsal. I have seen him in a new tragedy, _Philip
    van Artevelde_; he is grand, and has mounted the piece splendidly.

    “No one here understands the management and grouping of a crowd as
    he does. It is masterly.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_8th December._--The opening of our season was a success. Madame
    Gras and Reeves were recalled frantically four or five times, and
    they both deserved it.

    “Reeves is a priceless discovery for Jullien; his voice is
    exquisite in quality, he is a good musician, has an expressive
    face, and plays with judgment.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_14th January._--Jullien has landed us all in a dreadful bog, but
    don’t mention it in Paris, as we must not spoil his credit. It
    is not the Drury Lane venture that has ruined him; that was done
    before; now he has gone off to the provinces and is making a lot of
    money with his promenade concerts, while we take a fair amount each
    night at the theatre, none of which goes into our pockets, for _we
    are not paid at all_. Only the orchestra, chorus, and work-people
    are paid every week in order to keep the thing going somehow.

    “If Jullien does not pay me on his return, I shall arrange with
    Lumley to give some concerts in Her Majesty’s Theatre, for there is
    a good opening here since poor Mendelssohn’s death.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_12th February 1848._--My music has taken with the English as
    fire to gunpowder. The _Rakoczy_ and _Danse des Sylphes_ were
    encored. Everyone of importance, musically, was at Drury Lane
    for my concert, and most of the artists came to congratulate me.
    They had expected something diabolic, involved, incomprehensible.
    Now we shall see how they agree with our Paris critics. Davison
    himself wrote the _Times_ critique; they cut half of it out from
    want of space; still the remainder has had its effect. Old Hogarth
    of the _Daily News_ was truly comical: ‘My blood is on fire,’
    said he; ‘never have I been excited like this by music.’<span
    class="lftspc">”</span>

Jullien, coming finally to the end of his resources, was obliged to
call a council of war. It consisted of Sir Henry Bishop, Sir George
Smart, Planché, Gye, Marezeck, and myself.

He talked wildly of the different operas he proposed to mount, and
finally came to _Iphigenia in Tauris_, which, like many others, is
promised yearly by the London managers. Impatient at my silence he
turned upon me:

“Confound it all! surely you know that?”

“Certainly I know it. What do you want me to tell you?”

“How many acts there are, how many characters, what voices and, above
all, the style of setting and costume.”

“Take a pen and paper and I will tell you. Four acts, three men:
Orestes, baritone; Pylades, tenor; Thoas, high bass; a grand woman’s
part, Iphigenia, soprano; a small one, Diana, mezzo-soprano. The
costumes you will not like, unfortunately; the Scythians are ragged
savages on the shores of the Black Sea; Orestes and Pylades are
shipwrecked Greeks. Pylades alone has two dresses--in the fourth act he
comes in in a helmet----”

“A helmet!” cried Jullien, excitedly; “we are saved! I’ll write to
Paris for a golden helmet with a pearl coronet, and an ostrich plume as
long as my arm. We’ll have forty performances.”

“Prodigious!” as good Dominie Sampson says.

Needless to say, nothing happened. Reeves, the divine tenor, laughed at
the bare idea of singing Pylades, and Jullien quitted London shortly
after, leaving his theatre to go to pieces.




XXXI

MY FATHER’S DEATH--MEYLAN


Already saddened on my return to Paris by the havoc and ruin caused by
the Revolution, it was but my usual fate to suffer in addition, the
terrible sorrow of losing my father.

My mother had died ten years before, and, bitter as was that blow, it
was but light in comparison with the wrench of parting with this dearly
loved and sympathetic friend.

We had so much in common, our tastes were similar in so many ways, and,
since he had gladly acknowledged himself in the wrong over my choice of
a profession, we had been so entirely at one.

Ah! that I could have gratified his ardent wish to hear my _Requiem_,
but it was not to be.

I pass over the sorrow of my home-coming, the meeting with my
grief-worn sisters, the sight of his empty chair, of his watch--still
living, though he was dead!

A strange wish to indulge the luxury of grief crept over me; I must
drink this wormwood cup to the dregs; I must revisit Meylan--the early
home of my Mountain Star--and live over again my early love and sorrow.

Even now my heart beats faster as I recall my journey. Thirty-three
years ago and I, a ghost, come back to my early haunts! As I climb
through the vineyards the thoughts, the aspirations, the desires of my
childish days crowd in upon me.

Here did I sit with my father, playing _Nina_ to him on my flute; there
did Estelle stand.

I turn and take in the whole picture; that blessed house, the garden,
the valley, the river, and the far-off Alpine glaciers.

Once more I am young; life and love--a glorious poem--lie before me;
on my knees I cry to the hills, the valleys, the heavens: “Estelle!
Estelle!”

Bleed, my heart, bleed! but leave me still the power to suffer!

I rise and wander on, noting each familiar point. Here is her cherry
tree; there still flowers the plant of everlasting pea from which she
plucked blossoms. Sweet plant! bloom on in thy solitude! Good-bye!
good-bye!

Good-bye to my childhood, to my lost love--Time sweeps me on; Stella!
Stella!

The cold hand of Death lies heavy on my heart, yet around me are soft
sunlight, solitude, and silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next day I asked my cousin Victor:

“Do you know Madame F----?”

“The lovely Estelle D----, do you mean?”

“Yes, I loved her so when I was twelve--I love her yet.”

“You idiot,” said Victor, laughing, “she is fifty-one, and has a son of
twenty-two.”

He laughed again, and I laughed too, but mine was the cry of despair,
an April gleam through the rain.

“Nevertheless I want to see her.”

“Hector, I beg you will do no such thing. You will make a fool of
yourself and upset her.”

“I want to see her,” I repeated doggedly, with clenched teeth.

“Fifty-one!” he cried again, “you had much better keep your bright,
fresh, youthful memory of her.”

“Well, then, I will write.”

He gave me a pen, and subsided into an armchair in fits of laughter,
while my incoherent, despairing letter was composed. I sent it, but no
reply came. When next I go to Grenoble I mean to see her.

       *       *       *       *       *

In May 1851 I was commissioned by Government to judge instruments at
the London Exhibition, and wrote to Joseph d’Ortigue in June 1851--

“I want to tell you of the extraordinary impression made on me by the
singing of six thousand Charity School children in St Paul’s Cathedral.
It is an annual affair, and is, beyond compare, the most imposing, the
most _Babylonian_ ceremony I ever witnessed.

“It was a realisation of part of my dreams, and proof positive of the
unknown power of vast musical masses.

“This fact is no more understood on the Continent than is Chinese music.

“By-the-bye, France is easily first in the manufacture of musical
instruments. Erard, Sax and Vuillaume lead; all the others are of the
reed-pipe and tin-kettle tribe.”


                   _To_ LWOFF.

    “_January 1852._--It is impossible to do anything in Paris, so next
    month I shall go back to England, where, at least, the _wish to
    love music_ is real and persistent. If I can be of the least use to
    you in my newspaper articles, commend me, dear master. It will be
    a pleasure to tell our few earnest French readers of the great and
    good things that are done in Russia. It is a debt I shall gladly
    pay, since I never shall forget the warmth of my reception and the
    kindness of your Empress and your great Emperor’s family.

    “What a pity he himself does not like music!”


                   _To_ J. D’ORTIGUE.

    “LONDON, _March 1852_.--Just a line to tell you of my
    colossal success. Recalled I know not how often, and applauded
    both as composer and conductor. This morning, in the _Times_, the
    _Morning Post_, the _Advertiser_, and others, such effusions as
    never were written before about me! Beale is wild with joy, for it
    really is an event in the musical world. The orchestra at times
    surpassed all that I have heard in _verve_, delicacy and power.

    “All the papers except the _Daily News_ puff me, and now I am
    preparing Beethoven’s _Choral Symphony_, which, so far, has been
    sadly mutilated here.

    “But can you believe that all the critics are against the _Vestal_,
    of which we performed the first part yesterday?

    “I am utterly cast down at this _lapsus judicii_--am I not
    weak?--and am ashamed of having succeeded at such a cost. Why can I
    not remember that the good, the beautiful, the true, the false, the
    ugly, are not the same to everyone?”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_May 1852._--You speak of the expenses of our concerts; they are
    enormous. Every impresario in London expected to lose this year.
    In fact Beale, in the programme of the last concert, actually told
    the public that the _Choral Symphony_ rehearsals had swallowed more
    than a third of the subscription.

    “However, it has had a miraculous effect, and my success as
    conductor was great also; indeed, it was such an event in the
    musical world that people greatly doubted whether we should carry
    it through.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_June 1852._--I leave to-morrow. How I shall regret my glorious
    chorus and orchestra! Those beautiful women’s voices!

    “If only you had been here to hear our second performance of the
    _Choral Symphony_. The effect in that enormous Exeter Hall was most
    imposing.

    “Paris once more! where I must forget these melodious joys in my
    daily task of critic--the only one left me in my precious native
    land!

    “A naïf Birmingham amateur was heard the other day regretting
    that I had not been engaged for the Birmingham Festival. ‘For I
    hear,’ said he, ‘that Berlioz really is better than Costa!!!’<span
    class="lftspc">”</span>


                   _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

    “1852.--You say you are going mad! You must actually _be_ mad to
    write me such letters in the midst of the strenuous fatigue of my
    present life.

    “In your last letter from Havana you say you will arrive home with
    a hundred francs. Now you say you owe forty. Now remember! I shall
    take no notice in future of the nonsense you talk.

    “You chose your own profession--a hard one, I grant you, but the
    hardest part is over. Only five more months, and you will be in
    port for six months studying, after which you will be able to earn
    your own living.

    “I am putting aside money for your expenses during those six
    months. I can do no more.

    “What is this about torn shirts? Six weeks in Havana, and all your
    clothes ruined! At that rate you will want dozens of shirts every
    five months. You must be laughing at me.

    “Please weigh your language in writing to me. I do not like your
    present style. Life is not strewn with roses, and I can give you no
    career but _that which you yourself chose_. It is too late to alter
    now.”


                   _To_ J. D’ORTIGUE.

    “_January 1854._--Yes, dear d’Ortigue, you are right. It is my
    ungovernable passion for Art that is the cause of all my trouble,
    all my real suffering. Forgive me for letting you read between the
    lines. I knew it would hurt you, and yet I could not hold back the
    words that burnt me, although I might have known that your opinions
    on Art would be in accord with your religious feelings.

    “You know that I love the beautiful and the true, but I have
    another love quite as ardent--the love of love.

    “And when for some idea, some misunderstanding, I feel that my love
    may be lessened, something within me bursts asunder, and I cry like
    a child with a broken toy.

    “I know it is puerile, but it is true, although I do my best
    to cure myself. Like a true Christian, you have punished me by
    returning good for evil.

    “Your notes are capital, and I think I shall be able to use them,
    though never did I feel less in the mood for writing.

    “I cannot make a beginning. And I am sad--so sad! Life is slipping
    away. I long to _work_, and am obliged to _drudge_ in order to
    live. Adieu, adieu.”




XXXII

POOR OPHELIA


I would I were done with these wearisome reminiscences! When I have
written a few pages more I shall have said enough to give a fair sketch
of the mill-round of thought, work and sorrow wherein I am fated to
turn, until I cease to turn for ever. However long may still be the
days of my pilgrimage, they can but resemble those that are past. The
same stony roads, the same Slough of Despond, with here and there a
blessed oasis of

[Illustration: MONTMARTRE CEMETERY]

rest or a mighty rock that I may painfully climb, thereon to forget, in
the evening sunshine, the cold rains of the plain beneath. So slow are
changes in men and things that one would need to live two hundred years
to mark any difference.

Nanci, my sister, died of cancer, after six months’ frightful
suffering. Adèle, worn out with the fatigue and anxiety of nursing,
nearly followed her.

Why had no doctor the humanity to put an end to that awful martyrdom
with a little chloroform? They administer it to avoid the pain of an
operation that lasts, perhaps, an hour, and they refuse it when they
know cure to be impossible, to spare months of torture, when death
would be the supreme good. Even savages are more humane.

But no doubt my sister would have refused the boon had it been offered.
She would have said, “God’s will be done!” Would not God’s will have
been as well interpreted by a calm, swift death as by these months of
useless agony?

       *       *       *       *       *

My wife, too, died--mercifully without much suffering.

After four years’ death-in-life, unable to speak or move, she passed
quietly away at Montmartre on the 3rd March 1854. Her last hours were
sweetened by Louis’ presence. He was home on leave from Cherbourg four
days before she died.

I had been out for two hours when one of her nurses came to tell me all
was over, and I returned but to draw aside the shroud and kiss her pale
forehead.

Her portrait, painted in the days of her radiant beauty, and which I
had given her the year before, hung above her bed, looking calmly down
on the poor shell that had once enshrined her brilliant genius.

My sufferings were indescribable. They were intensified by one feeling
that has always been the hardest for me to bear--that of pity.

Again and again I went over Henriette’s troubles and their crushing
weight bore me to the earth. Her losses before our marriage, her
accident, the fiasco of her second appearance, her lost beauty and
renown, our home quarrels, her jealousy--not, in the end, without
cause--our separation, her son’s absence, her helplessness and dreary
years of retrospection, of contemplating approaching death and oblivion.

Oh, the pity of it! It turns my brain.

Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Thou alone couldst have understood us both,
thou alone couldst have pitied us--poor children of Art--loving, yet
wounding each other through our love! Thou art our God, if that other
God sits aloof in sublime indifference to our torments. Thou art our
father. Help us! Save us!

    De profundis ad te clamo!

Alone I went about my sorrowful task.

The Protestant pastor lived at the other side of Paris and I went to
him that evening. As my cab passed the Odéon I thought of how, in that
theatre twenty-six years before, my poor dead wife had burst like a
meteor upon Paris and had come forward, trembling and awed at her own
success, to receive the plaudits of all that was best and brightest in
France. Ophelia! Ophelia!

Through that door I saw her pass to a rehearsal of _Othello_. I was
nothing to her then. She would have thought the prophet mad who pointed
out a worn, distraught, unknown youth and said:

“Behold your husband!”

Yet he it is, my poor Ophelia, he who loved and suffered with you, who
tends you on this last long journey.

        “... Forty thousand brothers
    Could not, with all their quantity of love,
    Make up my sum.”

Shakespeare! Shakespeare! The waters have gone over me. Father! Father!
where art thou?

       *       *       *       *       *

Next day, out of love for me, came d’Ortigue, Brizeux, Léon de Wailly,
some artists brought by good Baron Taylor and other kind friends to
accompany Henriette to her last rest. Twenty-five years earlier all
intellectual Paris would have been there--now, he, who loved her and
had not the courage to go with her to the little Montmartre God’s-acre,
sits and weeps alone in her deserted garden, and her young son wanders
afar on the dreary ocean.

They turned her face towards the north, to that England she never saw
again, and her humble grave bears only--

Henriette Constance Berlioz-Smithson, born at Ennis, Ireland, died at
Montmartre, 3rd March 1854.

The papers barely noticed her death, but Jules Janin remembered and
wrote in the _Débats_:

    “These stage divinities how soon they pass!

    “How short a time it seems since we sat with Juliet on that balcony
    above the Verona road. Juliet, so fair, so ethereal, listening
    dreamily as Romeo speaks, her golden voice vibrating with the
    undying poetry of Shakespeare, the whole world bound by her magic
    spells!

    “She was barely twenty, this Miss Smithson, and, without knowing
    it, she was a poem, a passion, a revolution--By her absolute truth
    she conquered.

    “She it was who gave the lead to Dorval, Malibran, Victor Hugo and
    Berlioz. To her Delacroix owed his conception of sweet Ophelia.

    “Now she is dead and her dream of glory--that glory which passes so
    rapidly--is over and done.

    “In my young days they used to sing a funeral dirge to Juliet,
    wherein recurred, like an old Greek chorus, the heart-breaking
    refrain, ‘Throw flowers! Throw flowers!’

    “‘Juliet is dead. Throw flowers!
    Death lies upon her, softly as frost on April grass. Throw flowers!
    Her love song is a funeral knell. Throw flowers!
    Her marriage feast the feast of Death. Throw flowers!
    Her marriage blossoms deck her tomb. Throw flowers!’”



Liszt wrote from Weimar as only he can write:

“She inspired you, you loved and sang of her. Her work is done!”


                   _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

    “_6th March 1854._--My poor dear Louis,--You know all. I am alone
    and writing to you in the large sitting-room next to her deserted
    bedroom. I have just been to the cemetery where I laid two wreaths
    upon her grave--one for you and one for myself. The servants are
    still here and are arranging things for the sale; I want to realise
    as much as possible for you.

    “I have kept her hair.

    “You will never know how much we made each other suffer; our very
    suffering bound us one to the other. I could neither live with her
    nor without her.

    “Alexis and I talked much of you yesterday. How I wish you were
    more rational! It would make me so happy to feel that you were sure
    of yourself.

    “I shall be able to do more for you now than has hitherto been
    possible, but I shall take every precaution to prevent your
    squandering money. Alexis agrees that I am right.

    “At present I am penniless and shall be for at least six months; I
    must pay the doctor and the sale will bring in but little. The King
    of Saxony’s director wishes me to be in Dresden next month and I
    shall have to borrow money for my journey.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_23rd March._--Your letter is an unexpected pleasure, dear boy.
    With seventy francs a month you can easily save, if you give up
    your habit of squandering money. Tell me whether you can get back
    the watch you pawned at Havre. My father gave it to you. If you
    cannot, I will buy you another. I have had a watch chain made for
    you of your mother’s hair; keep it carefully. I also had a bracelet
    made for my sister, the rest of the hair I shall keep.

    “Did you see Jules Janin’s touching words on your poor mother and
    his exquisite reference to my _Romeo_ ‘Throw flowers?’ I hope for
    another letter from you before Saturday.

    “God grant that my German trip may bring in something! The
    Montmartre house is not let and I may have to pay rent there a year
    longer.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    What more can I say of the two great passions that influenced
    my life? One was a childhood’s memory--yet not to be despised
    since, with my love for Estelle, awoke my love of nature. The
    other--coming in my manhood with my worship of Shakespeare--took
    possession of me and overwhelmed me completely. Love of Art and the
    artist intermingled, each acting upon and intensifying the other.

    Those who cannot understand this will still less understand my
    vague poetic longings at the scent of a lovely rose, the sight of a
    beautiful harp. Estelle was the rose that bloomed alone, Henriette
    the harp that shared my music, my joys, my sorrows and of which
    alas! I snapped so many, many strings!


                   _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

    “_October 1854._--I am sad this morning, dear Louis. I dreamt that
    we were walking--you and I--in the garden at La Côte, and not
    knowing exactly where you are, my dream troubles me.

    “I have some news that will not, I think, surprise you. Two months
    ago I married again.

    “I could not live alone, neither could I desert the woman who, for
    fourteen years, has been my companion.

    “My uncle and all my friends agree with me.

    “I need not tell you that your interests are safe. If I die first
    my wife will have but a quarter of my small fortune and even that I
    know she intends to leave to you.

    “If you still have any painful thoughts of Mademoiselle Recio I
    know you will hide them for my sake.

    “We were married very quietly without fuss or mystery. If you
    mention this in your letters, write nothing that I cannot show to
    my wife; I must have no cloud in my home. But your own heart will
    tell you what to do.

    “Admiral Cécile tells me he has received your letter. You cannot
    enter the Marines until the end of your three years’ cruise.

    “I am overwhelmed with rehearsals and arrangements for producing my
    new work, the _Childhood of Christ_. It bristles with difficulties.

    “Good-bye, dear Louis.”




XXXIII

DEAD SEA FRUIT


The end of my career is in sight, or if not the end, yet are my feet
set on the steep slope leading to the goal; worn and tired, I am
consumed by a burning fire that sometimes rages with such violence as
to frighten me.

I begin to know French, to write fairly a page of verse, prose or
score; I love an orchestra, and can direct it; I worship Art in every
form. But I belong to a nation that cares for none of these things.
Parisians are barbarians; not one rich man in ten has a library, no
one buys books--they hire feeble novels at a penny a volume from
circulating libraries--this is sufficient mental food for all classes.
For a few francs a month they hire from the music shops the flat and
dreary compositions with which they overflow.

What have I to do with Paris? That Paris--the apotheosis of
industrialism in Art--that casts a scornful eye upon me, holding me
only too honoured in fulfilling my calling of pamphleteer, for which
alone, it holds, I came into the world. I _know_ what I could do with
dramatic music, but to try it would be both useless and dangerous.

There is no suitable theatre; I must be absolute dictator of a grand
orchestra; I must have the eager good-will of all, from prima-donna to
scene-shifter; my theatre must be a gigantic musical instrument.

I could play it.

But this will never be; it would give too much scope to the cabals of
my foes, and not only should I have to face the hatred of my critics
but also the vindictive fury caused by my original style.

People would naturally ask, “If he becomes popular, where will our
compositions be?”

I proved this at Covent Garden, where a crew of Italians nearly wrecked
_Benvenuto Cellini_ by hissing from beginning to end. Costa was
credited with this cabal, since I had fallen foul of him in newspaper
articles for the liberties he took with the scores of the great
masters. However, guilty or not, he knew how to quiet my doubts by
doing his best to help me during my rehearsals.

Indignant at my treatment, the artists of London tried,
unsuccessfully, to arrange a testimonial concert for me, and through
my good friend Beale offered me a present of two hundred guineas, the
subscription list being headed by Messrs Broadwood. Although greatly
moved at the kindly generosity of the present, I was unable to accept
it. French ideas would not permit.

For three years I have been worried by the vision of a grand opera
to which I want to write both words and music, as I have done in the
_Childhood of Christ_.

So far I have resisted temptation. May I hold out until the end![24]

To me the subject is magnificent, soul-stirring, which means that the
Parisians would find it flat and wearisome.

Even if I could believe they might like it, where should I find a
woman with beauty, voice, dramatic talent and fiery soul to fill the
chief part? The very thought of hurling myself once more against the
obstacles raised by the crass stupidity of my opponents makes my blood
boil. The shock of our collision would be too dangerous, for I feel I
could kill them all like dogs.

Even from concert-giving in Paris I am excluded, for, thanks to the
machinations of my enemies in the Conservatoire, the Minister of the
Interior at the prize-giving took occasion to state that in future the
hall of the Conservatoire (the only possible one for my purpose) would
be lent to _no one_. The no one could only be me, for, with two or
three exceptions in twenty years, I was the only one who so used it.

Although most of the executants in this celebrated society are my
friends, they are overborne by a hostile chief and a small clique; my
compositions, therefore, are never given. Once, six or seven years
ago, they did ask me for some excerpts from _Faust_, then tried to damn
them by sandwiching them between Beethoven’s _C minor Symphony_ and
Spontini’s finale to the _Vestal_. Fortunately they were disappointed,
the Sylph scene was enthusiastically encored; but Girard, who had
conducted the whole thing clumsily and colourlessly, pretended he could
not find the place, so it was not repeated.

After that they avoided my works like the plague.

Of all the millionaires in Paris none thinks of doing anything for
music. Paganini’s example was not followed, and the great artist’s gift
to me stands alone.

No; a composer of classical music must be absolutely independent or
must resign himself to all the miseries from which I suffered--to
incomplete rehearsals, to inconvenient concert halls, to checks of
every foreseen and unforeseen kind, and to the rapacity of the hospital
tax-gatherers, who seize one-eighth of the _gross_ receipts. Usually I
am willing and anxious to make every possible sacrifice, but sometimes
occasions arise when such sacrifices cease to be generous and become
criminal.

Two years ago, when there was still some hope of my wife’s recovery,
and therefore expenses were greatly increased, I dreamt one night of a
symphony.

On waking I could still recall nearly all the first movement, an
allegro in A minor. As I moved towards my writing-table to put it down,
I suddenly thought:

“If I do this I shall be drawn on to compose the rest, and, since my
ideas always expand, it will end by being enormously long; it will take
me three or four months; I shall write no articles, and my income will
fail. When the symphony is written I shall, weakly, have it copied and
so incur a debt of a thousand or twelve hundred francs.

“Then I shall be impelled to give a concert that it may be heard; the
receipts will hardly equal half the expenditure, and I shall lose
money. I have not got it. My poor invalid will be without necessary
comforts, and my son’s expenses on board ship will not be met.”

With a shudder of horror I threw aside my pen, saying:

“To-morrow I shall have forgotten the symphony.”

But no! Next night that obstinate motif returned more clearly than
before--I could even see it written out. I started up in feverish
agitation, humming it over and--again my decision held me back, and I
put the temptation aside. I fell asleep and next morning my symphony
was gone for ever.

“Coward!” cries the young enthusiast, “brave all and write! Ruin
yourself! Dare everything! What right have you to push back into
oblivion a work of art that stretches out to you its piteous hands
crying for the light of day?”

Ah, youth, youth! never hast thou suffered as I suffer, else wouldst
thou understand and be silent.

Never was I backward, when I stood alone, to bear the brunt of my own
actions, never did I fail when my wife stood beside me, alert and
hopeful, to help me on, to face with me privation and suffering in the
cause of Art. But when she lay half dead, a doctor and three nurses in
attendance, when I knew that my musical venture _must_ end in disaster,
was I cowardly to hold back? Did I not do more honour to my divine
goddess, Music, in crediting her with sweet reasonableness than in
treating her as an all-devouring Moloch, greedy for human victims?

If I have lately been carried away in writing my trilogy _The Childhood
of Christ_, it is that I no longer have these heavy calls upon me, and
also that, owing to my warm and generous reception in Germany, I can
count upon the performance of my works.

Since writing this, M. Benazet of Baden has invited me several times to
conduct the annual festival there, and, with unequalled generosity, has
given me _carte blanche_ in the engagement and payment of my performers.

Each year Germany receives me more cordially; I have been there four
times during the last eighteen months.

So interested were the blind King of Hanover and his Antigone, the
Queen, in my rehearsals that they would appear at eight o’clock in the
morning and sometimes stay till noon, as the King said:

“In order the better to get at the heart of my meaning and to grasp
more thoroughly my new ideas.”

How warmly, too, he spoke of my _King Lear_--of the storm, the prison
scene, the fateful sorrows of sweet Cordelia.

“I did not believe there was anything so beautiful in music,” he said,
“but you have enlightened me. And how you conduct? I cannot see you but
I feel it. I owe much to Providence,” he added, simply; “this love of
music is a compensation for all I have lost.”

I never saw Henriette in that part, which was her best, but from her
recital of some scenes I can imagine what it must have been.

On my last visit to Hanover the Queen asked me to include two pieces
from _Romeo_ in my programme, and the King desired me to return next
winter to superintend a theatrical performance of the same work,
allowing me to requisition artists from Brunswick, Hamburg, and even
Dresden.

It was the same with the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who said, as I took
my leave:

“M. Berlioz, shake hands with me and remember my theatre is always open
to you.”

M. de Lüttichau, superintendent to the King of Saxony, has offered me
the post of director when it shall be vacant.

Liszt strongly advises me to accept, but I cannot say. Time enough to
decide when the place is at my disposal.

At present in Dresden they talk of reviving _Benvenuto Cellini_, which
Liszt has already given in Weimar, and of course I should have to go
and superintend the first performances.

Blessed Germany, nursing mother of Art; generous England; Russia, my
saviour; good friends in France, and you--noble hearts of all nations
whom I have known--I thank and bless you all; your memory will be my
comfort to my latest hour.

As for you, idiots and blind! You, my Guildenstern, Rosencrantz, Iago
and Osric! You, crawling worms of all kinds! Farewell, my friends--I
scorn you; may you be forgotten ere I die!

    _Note._--This was originally the ending of Berlioz’ _Mémoires_, but
    his correspondence was voluminous after this date and he also added
    some chapters to his Life.


                   _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL.

    “_June 1855._--You ask me to describe my _Te Deum_, which is rather
    embarrassing. I can only say that its effect both on the performers
    and myself was stupendous. Its immeasurable grandeur and breadth
    struck everyone, and you can understand that the _Tibi omnes_ and
    _Judex_ would have even more effect in a less sonorous hall than
    the church of St Eustache.

    “I start for England on Friday. Wagner, who is directing the old
    London Philharmonic (a post I was obliged to refuse, being engaged
    by the other society) is buried beneath the vituperations of the
    whole British press. He remains calm, for he says that _in fifty
    years he will be master of the musical world_.”

    “_July._--“My trip to London, where, each time, I become more
    comfortably established, was a brilliant success.

    “I mean to go back next winter after a prospective short tour
    through Austria and Bohemia--at least if we are not at war with
    Austria.”

    “I do nothing but correct proofs from morning to night, and see,
    hear, know nothing.”

    “Meyerbeer ought to be pleased with the reception of the _Etoile du
    Nord_ at Covent Garden. They threw him bouquets, as though he were
    a prima-donna.”


                   _To_ RICHARD WAGNER.

    “_September 1855._--Your letter has given me real pleasure. You
    do well to deplore my ignorance of German, and I have often told
    myself that, as you say, this ignorance makes it impossible for me
    to appreciate your writings. Expression melts away in translation,
    no matter how daintily it is handled.”

    “In _true music_ there are accents that belong to special words,
    separated they are spoilt.”

    “But what can I do? I find it so devilishly hard to learn
    languages; a few words of English and Italian are all I can manage.”

    “So you are busy melting glaciers with your Nibelungen! It must
    be glorious to write in the presence of great Mother Nature--a
    joy withheld from me, for, instead of stimulating, the sea, the
    mountain peaks, the glories of this beautiful earth absorb me so
    completely that I have no room, no outlet for expression. I only
    feel. I can but describe the moon from her reflection at the bottom
    of a well.”

    “I am sorry I have no scores to send you, but you shall have the
    _Te Deum_, _Childhood of Christ_ and _Lélio_ as soon as they come
    out. I already have your _Lohengrin_ and should be delighted if you
    would let me have _Tannhäuser_.

    “To meet as you suggest would be indeed a pleasure, but I dare not
    think of it. Since Paris offers me but Dead Sea fruit I must of
    necessity earn my bread by travelling for bread--not pleasure.

    “No matter. If we could but live another hundred years or so we
    might perhaps understand the true inwardness of men and things. Old
    Demiurge must laugh in his beard at the continual triumph of his
    well-worn, oft-repeated farce.

    “But I will not speak ill of him, since he is a friend of yours
    and you have become his champion. I am an impious wretch, full of
    respect for the _Pies_. Forgive the atrocious pun!

    “_P.S._--Winged flights of many tinted thoughts crowd in upon me
    and I long to send them, were there but time.

    “Write me down an ass until further orders.”




XXXIV

1863--GATHERING TWILIGHT


Nearly ten years since I finished my memoir and during that time my
life has been as full of incident as ever.

But since, for nothing on earth would I go through the labour of
writing again, I must just indicate the chief points.

My work is over; Othello’s occupation’s gone. I no longer compose,
conduct, write either prose or verse. I have resigned my post of
musical critic and wish to do nothing more. I only read, think, fight
my deadly weariness of soul and suffer from the incurable neuralgia
that tortures me night and day.

To my great surprise I have been elected a member of the Academy and my
relations with my colleagues are, throughout, pleasant and friendly.

In 1855 Prince Napoleon desired me to arrange a great concert in
the Exhibition building for the day upon which the Emperor was to
distribute the prizes.

I accepted on condition that I had no pecuniary responsibility, and M.
Ber, a generous and brave impresario, came forward and treated me most
liberally.

These concerts (for there were several besides the official one)
brought me in eight thousand francs.

In a raised gallery behind the throne I had placed twelve hundred
musicians, who were barely heard. Not that that mattered much on the
day of the ceremony, for I was stopped at the most interesting point of
the very first piece (the _Imperial Cantata_ which I had written for
the occasion) because the Prince had to make his speech and the music
was lasting too long!!

However the next day the paying public was admitted and we took
seventy-five thousand francs. This time I brought the orchestra down
into the body of the hall, with fine effect.

I sent to Brussels for an electrician I knew, who made me a five-wired
metronome so that by the single movement of my left hand, I could mark
time for the five deputy conductors placed at different points of the
enormous space.

The _ensemble_ was marvellous.

Since then most of the theatres have adopted electric metronomes for
the guidance of chorus-masters behind the scenes. The Opera alone
refused; but, when I undertook the supervision of _Alcestis_, I
introduced it.

In these Palais de l’Industrie concerts the finest effects were
obtained from broad, grand, simple and somewhat slow movements, such
as the chorus from _Armida_, the _Tibi omnes_ of my _Te Deum_ and the
_Apotheosis_ of my _Funeral Symphony_.


                   _Letters to_ FERRAND and LOUIS BERLIOZ from
                                      1858 to 1863.


      _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.


    “_November 1858._--I have nothing to tell you, I simply want to
    write. I am ill, miserable (how many _I’s_ to each line!) Always
    _I_ and _me_! One’s friends are for _oneself_, it ought to be
    oneself for one’s friends.

    “My dejection melts away as I write; for pity’s sake let us write
    oftener! These years of silence are insupportable.

    “Think how horribly quickly we are dying and how much good your
    letters do me!

    “Last night I dreamt of music, this morning I recalled it all and
    fell into one of those supernal ecstasies.... All the tears of my
    soul poured forth as I listened to those divinely sonorous smiles
    that radiate from the angels alone. Believe me, dear friend, the
    being who could write such miracles of transcendent melody would be
    more than mortal.

    “So sings great Michael as, erect upon the threshold of the
    empyrean, he dreamily gazes down upon the worlds beneath.

    “Why, oh, why! have I not such an orchestra that I, too, could sing
    this archangelic song!

    “Back to this lower earth! I am interrupted. Vulgar, commonplace,
    stupid life! Oh! that I had a hundred cannon to fire all at once!

    “Good-bye. I feel better. Forgive me!”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_6th July 1861._--_The Trojans_ has been accepted for the Opera,
    but I cannot tell when they will produce it as Gounod and Gervaert
    have to come first. But I am determined to worry myself no more; I
    will not court Fortune, I will lie in bed and await her.

    “All the same, I could not resist a little uncourtly frankness when
    the Empress asked me when she should hear _The Trojans_.

    “‘I do not know, madame, I begin to
    think one must live a hundred and fifty years in order to get a
    hearing at the Opera.’

    “The annoying part is that, thanks to these delays, my work is
    getting a sort of advance reputation that may injure it in the end.

    “I am getting on with a one-act opera for Baden, written round
    Shakespeare’s _Much Ado About Nothing_. It is called _Beatrice and
    Benedict_; I promise there shall not be much _Ado_ in the shape of
    noise in it. Benazet, the king of Baden, wants it next year.

    “An American director has offered me an engagement in the
    _Dis_united States; but his proposals are unavailing in view of my
    unconquerable antipathy to his great nation, and my love of money
    is not sufficiently great to prick me on. I do not know whether
    your love for American _utilitarian_ manners and customs is any
    more intense than my own.

    “In any case, it would be a great mistake to go far from Paris now;
    at any moment they might want _The Trojans_.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_30th June 1862._--In my bereavement I can write but little.

    “My wife is dead--struck down in a moment by heart disease. The
    frightful loneliness, after the wrench of this sudden parting, is
    indescribable. Forgive me for not saying more.”


                   _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

    “_January 1858._--Perhaps you have heard that a band of ruffians
    surrounded the Emperor’s carriage as he went to the opera. They
    threw a bomb that killed and wounded both men and horses, but,
    by great good luck, did not touch the Emperor; and the charming
    Empress did not lose her head for a moment. The courage and
    presence of mind of both were perfect.

    “I have just had a long letter from M. von Bulow, Liszt’s
    son-in-law, who married Mlle. Cosima. He tells me that he performed
    my _Cellini_ overture with the greatest success at a Berlin
    concert. He is one of the most fervent disciples of that crazy
    school of the ‘Music of the Future,’ as they call it in Germany.”

    “They stick to it, and want me to be their leader and
    standard-bearer, but I write nothing, say nothing, but just let
    them go their way. Good sense will teach reasonable people the
    truth.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_May 1858._--The foreign mail leaves to-morrow, and I must have a
    chat with you, dear Louis. I long for news. Are you well? happy?

    “Here we are rather miserable. I am somewhat better, but my wife is
    nearly always in bed and in pain.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_November 1860._--Dear Boy,--Here is a hundred-franc note. Be sure
    to acknowledge it. I am thankful you are better. I, too, think my
    disease is wearing itself out. I am certainly better since I gave
    up remedies. Ideas for my little opera throng in so fast that I
    cannot find time to write; sometimes I begin a new one before I
    finish the old.”

    “You ask how I manage to crowd Shakespeare’s five acts into
    one. I have taken only one subject from the play--the part in
    which Beatrice and Benedict, who detest each other, are mutually
    persuaded of each other’s love, whereby they are inspired with
    true passion. The idea is really comic.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_14th February 1861._--It worries me to hear of your state of mind.

    “I cannot imagine what dreams have made your present life so
    impossible. All I can say is that I was, at your age, far from
    being as well off as you are.

    “Nay, more; I never dared to hope that, so soon after getting your
    captain’s certificate, you would find a berth.

    “It is natural that you should wish to get on, but sometimes the
    chances of one year bring more change into a man’s life than ten
    years of strenuous endeavour.

    “How can I teach you patience? Your mania for marriage would make
    me laugh were I not saddened by seeing you striving after the
    heaviest of all fetters and after the sordid vexations of domestic
    life--the most hopeless and exasperating of all lives. You are
    twenty-six, and have eighteen hundred francs, with a prospect of
    rapid promotion. When I married your mother I was thirty, and
    had but three hundred francs in the world--lent me by my friend
    Gounet--and the balance of my Prix de Rome scholarship.

    “Then there were your mother’s debts--nearly fourteen thousand
    francs--which I paid off gradually, and the necessity of sending
    money to her mother in England, besides which I had quarrelled with
    my family, who cast me off, and was trying hard to make my first
    small mark in the musical world.

    “Compare my hardships with your present discontent! Even now, do
    you think it is very lively for me to be bound to this infernal
    galley-oar of journalism?

    “I am so ill I can hardly hold my pen, yet I am forced to write for
    my miserable hundred francs, the while my brain teems with work
    and plans and designs that fall dead--thanks to my slavery.

    “You are well and strong, while I writhe in ceaseless, incurable
    pain. Marie[25] thanks you for your kind messages. She, too, is
    ill. Dear boy! you have at least a father, friend, devoted brother,
    who loves you more than you seem to think, but who wishes that your
    character were firmer, your mind more decided.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_21st February 1861._--Wagner is turning our singers into goats.
    It seems impossible to disentangle this _Tannhäuser_. I hear that
    the last general rehearsal was awful, and only finished at one in
    the morning. I suppose they will get through somehow.

    “Liszt is coming to prop up the charivari.

    “I have refused to write the critique, and have asked d’Ortigue to
    do it. It is best for every reason, and besides, it will disappoint
    them! Never did I have so many windmills to run a-tilt of as I have
    this year. I am deluged with fools of every species, and am choking
    with anger.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_5th March 1861._--The _Tannhäuser_ scandal grows apace. Everyone
    is raging. Even the Minister left the rehearsal in a towering
    passion. The Emperor is far from pleased; yet there are still a few
    honest enthusiasts left--even among French people.

    “Wagner is decidedly mad. He will die of apoplexy, just as Jullien
    did last year.

    “Liszt never came after all. I think he expected a fiasco. They
    have spent a hundred and sixty thousand francs over mounting the
    opera. Well, we shall see what Friday brings forth.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_21st March 1861._--The second performance of _Tannhäuser_ was
    worse than the first. No more laughter, the audience was too
    furious, and, regardless of the presence of the Emperor and
    Empress, hissed unmercifully. Coming out, Wagner was vituperated
    as a scoundrel, an idiot, an impertinent wretch. If this goes on,
    one day the performance will stop abruptly in the middle, and there
    will be an end of the whole thing.

    “The press is unanimous in damning it.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_18th April 1861._--Write, dear Louis, if you can, without the
    cruel knife-thrusts you gave me in your last letter.

    “I am worse than usual to-day, and have not strength to begin
    my article. I had an ovation at the Conservatoire after the
    performance of _Faust_. I dined with the Emperor a week ago, and
    exchanged a few words with him. I was magnificently bored.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_2nd June 1861._--You are worried, and I can do nothing for
    you. Alexis is trying to find you a position in Paris, but is
    unsuccessful. I am as inefficient as he is. You alone can command
    your fate. They wish me to bring out _Alcestis_ at the Opera as I
    did _Orpheus_ at the Théâtre Lyrique, and offer me full author’s
    rights, but I have refused for various reasons.

    “They believe that, for money, artists will stultify their
    consciences; I mean to prove that their belief is false.[26]

    “My obstinacy has offended many. Instead of amusing themselves by
    spoiling Gluck’s _chef d’œuvre_, I wish they would spend their
    money over mounting _The Trojans_. But of course they won’t, since
    it is the obvious thing to do! Liszt has conquered the Emperor; he
    played at Court last week, and has been given the Legion of Honour.

    “Ah, if one only plays the piano!”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_28th October 1861._--Dear Louis,--Did I not know what a terrible
    effect disappointment has on even the best characters, I should
    really feel inclined to let you have some home truths. You have
    wounded me mortally with a deliberate calmness that shows you were
    master of your language. But I can forgive, for you are not a bad
    son after all.

    “You go too far. Is it my fault that I am not rich, that I could
    not let you live idly in Paris with a wife and children? Is there
    a shadow of justice in reproaching me as you do? For nearly three
    months you keep silence, then comes this ironical letter! My poor
    dear boy, it is not right.

    “Don’t worry about your debt to the tailor; send me the bill and I
    will pay him.

    “You ask me to beg a post for you. From whom? You know there never
    was a more awkward man than I at asking favours.

    “Good-bye, dear son, dear friend, dear unlucky boy--unlucky by your
    own fault, not by mine.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_17th June 1862._--You have received my letter and telegram,[27]
    but I write to ask whether you can come to me in Baden on the
    6th or 7th August, as I know you would enjoy hearing the last
    rehearsals and first performance of my opera. In my leisure moments
    you would be my companion, you would see my friends, we should be
    together.

    “Could you leave your ship so near its date for sailing?

    “I am not sure how much money I can send you. The expenses of that
    sad ceremony--the transference from St Germain--will be great.

    “I am rather afraid, too, of trusting you in a gambling town, but
    if you will give me your word of honour not to stake a single
    florin I will trust you.

    “My mother-in-law came back yesterday just after I had left home
    to find only her daughter’s body. She is nearly frantic and is
    constantly watched by a friend who came to our help. Think of the
    anguish! Write soon, my dear, dear boy.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “BADEN, _10th August 1862_.--_Beatrice_ was applauded from
    end to end, and I was recalled more times than I could count. My
    friends were delighted, but I was quite unmoved, for it was one of
    my days of excruciating pain and nothing seemed to matter.

    “To-day I am better and can enjoy their congratulations.

    “You will be pleased too, but why have you left me so long without
    a letter? Why do they keep transferring you from boat to boat? Do
    not write here again as I soon go back to Paris. Now I am called
    and must go and thank my radiant singers.”


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.

    “PARIS, _21st August 1862_.--I am just home from Baden,
    where _Beatrice_ obtained a real triumph.

    “I always fly to you, be my news good or evil, I am so sure of your
    loving interest. Would you had been there! it would have recalled
    the night of the _Childhood of Christ_.

    “Foes and conspirators stayed in Paris, artists and authors
    journeyed to Baden to be present; Madame Charton-Demeur was
    perfect, both as singer and actress.

    “But can you believe that my neuralgia was too bad that day for me
    to take interest in anything? I took my place at the conductor’s
    desk, before that cosmopolitan audience, to direct an opera of
    which I had written both words and music, absolutely, deadly
    impassible. Whereby I conducted better than usual. I was much more
    nervous at the second performance.

    “Benazet, who always does things royally, spent outrageously in
    every department. He has splendidly inaugurated the new theatre
    and has created a furore. They want to give _Beatrice_ at the
    Opera Comique, but there is no one to do the heroine since Madame
    Charton-Demeur is going to America.

    “You would laugh at the critiques. People are finding out that I
    have melody; that I can be gay--in fact, really comic; that I am
    not _noisy_, which is rather obvious, since the heavy instruments
    are conspicuous by their absence.

    “How much patience I should need were I not so completely
    indifferent. Dear friend, I suffer a perfect martyrdom daily from
    four in the morning till four in the afternoon. What is to become
    of me? I do not tell you this to make you patient under your own
    afflictions--my woes are no compensation to you.

    “I simply cry unto you as one does to those who love and are loved.
    Adieu! Adieu!”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_26th August 1862._--How I should love to come to you, as Madame
    Ferrand wishes! But I have much to do here owing to my wife’s
    death, and Louis has resigned his commission and is stranded.
    Besides, I am busy enlarging my _Beatrice_.

    “I am trying to cut or untie all the bonds that hold me to Art,
    that I may be able to say to Death, ‘When thou wilt.’

    “I dare not complain when I think of what you bear.

    “Are sufferings like ours the inevitable result of our
    organisation? Must we be punished for having worshipped the
    Beautiful throughout our lives? Probably.

    “We have drunk too deeply of the enchanted cup; we have pursued our
    ideals too far.

    “Still, dear friend, you have a devoted wife to help you to bear
    your cross. You know nothing of the dread duet beating, night
    and day, into your brain--the joint voices of world-weariness and
    isolation!

    “God grant you never may! It is saddening music.

    “Good-bye! My gathering tears would make me write words that would
    grieve you yet more. Again, good-bye!”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_3rd March 1863._--Your suppositions with regard to my depression
    are fortunately wrong; Louis has certainly worried me terribly, but
    I have forgiven him; he has found a ship and is now in Mexico.

    “No; my trouble was Love. A love unsought that met me smiling, that
    I did not seek, that I even fought against for awhile.

    “But my loneliness, my unceasing yearning for affection, conquered
    me; first I let myself be loved, then I more than loved in return,
    and at last a separation became inevitable--a separation absolute
    as death. That is all. I am slowly recovering, but health such as
    this is sad. I will say no more....

    “I am glad my _Beatrice_ pleases you. I am going to Weimar, where
    it is now in rehearsal, to conduct a few performances in April,
    then I shall come back to this wilderness--Paris.

    “Pray, dear friend, that my apathy may become complete, for
    otherwise I shall have a hard time while _The Trojans_ is in
    rehearsal.

    “Good-bye; when I see your dear writing on my desk it calms me for
    the day. Never forget that.”




XXXV

THE TROJANS


By this time (1863) I had finished the dramatic work on which I had
been engaged. Four years earlier, being in Weimar with Liszt’s devoted
friend, the Princess of Sayn-Wittgenstein--a woman whose noble heart
and mind had often been my comfort in my darkest hours--I was drawn on
to speak of my love of Virgil and of my wish to compose a grand opera
in Shakespearian style on the second and fourth books of the _Æneid_. I
added that I knew too well the misery and worry that would be my fate
to dare to embark on such a project.

Said the Princess:

“Your passion for Shakespeare and love for the classics would indeed
produce a work both grand and original. You must do it.”

As I demurred, she continued:

“Listen! If you draw back from fear of petty troubles, if you are so
weak as not to suffer in the cause of Cassandra and Dido, come here no
more. I will never see you again!”

Once back in Paris I began the poem of _The Trojans_. Then I started on
the score, and at the end of three years and a half it was finished. As
I polished and repolished it I read it to many of my friends, profiting
by their criticism; then I wrote to the Emperor begging him to read it
and, should he judge it suitable, to use his influence to secure it a
hearing at the Opera.

However, M. de Morny dissuaded me from sending my letter, and when
finally _The Trojans_ saw the footlights the Emperor was not even
present.

After many cruel disappointments with regard to the opera,[28] I at
last succumbed to the persuasion of M. Carvalho and allowed him to set
_The Trojans at Carthage_ (the second section of the opera) at the
Théâtre Lyrique.

Although he received a Government subsidy of a hundred thousand francs
a year, neither his theatre, singers, chorus, nor orchestra was equal
to the task. Both he and I made great sacrifices, and I, out of my
small income, paid some extra musicians and cut up my orchestration to
bring it within his limits.

Madame Charton-Demeur, the only possible woman for Dido, most
generously accepted fees far below those offered her in Madrid,
but despite everything the production was incomplete; indeed, the
sceneshifters made such a muddle of the storm scene that we were
obliged to suppress it entirely.

As I said before, if I am to superintend a really fine representation
I must have an absolutely free hand, and the good-will of every one
around, otherwise I get worn out with storming at opposition, and end
by resigning and letting everything go to the devil as it will.

I cannot describe what Carvalho[29] made me suffer in demanding cuts
that he deemed necessary. When he dared ask no more he worked upon me
through friends, whose niggling, peddling criticism drove me nearly
mad. Said one:

“How about your rhapsodist with the four-stringed lyre? I daresay you
are right as to archæology, but----”

“Well?”

“It is rather dangerous; people are certain to laugh.”

“H’m! laughable is it that an antique lyre should have only four notes?”

Another:

“There is a risky word in your prologue that I fairly tremble over.”

“What’s that?”

“_Triomphaux._”

“Well, why not? Is not it the plural of _triomphal_ just as _chevaux_
is of _cheval_?”

“Yes, but it is not much used.”

“Oh, confound it all! If, in an epic poem, I were to use words suited
to vaudevilles and variety shows, I should not have much choice of
language.”

“Well, people will certainly laugh.”

“Ha! ha! triomphaux! It is really almost as funny as Molière’s _tarte à
la crême_. Ha! ha!”

A third:

“I say! You really must _not_ let Æneas come on in a helmet.”

“And why not?”

“Why, Mangin, the gutter pencil-seller, wears one. Certainly his is a
mediæval one, but that doesn’t matter. The gallery cads will certainly
howl ‘Hallo! there’s Mangin!’

“I see--a Trojan hero may not wear a helmet, lest he should be like
Mangin!”

Number four:

“Old fellow, do something to please me!”

“What is it now?”

“Suppress Mercury. Those wings on his head and his heels are really
too comical. No one ever saw anybody with wings anywhere but on their
shoulders.”

“Ah, you have seen people with wings on their shoulders? I have not,
but I can quite understand that wings in unexpected places are awkward.
One does not often meet Mercury strolling about the streets of Paris.”

Can any one conceive what these crass idiots made me endure? In
addition, I had to fight the musical ideas of Carvalho, who could not
believe that, after studying opera for forty years, I knew just a
little about it.

The actors alone loyally abstained from worrying me, for which
forbearance I give them all most hearty thanks.

The first performance took place on the 4th November 1863. There was
no hostile demonstration except the hissing of one man, and he kept on
regularly up to the tenth night. Five papers said everything insulting
that they could think of, but, on the other hand, fifty articles
of admiring criticism--among them those of my friends, Gasperini,
d’Ortigue, L. Kreutzer, and Damcke--filled me with a joyous pride to
which I had too long been a stranger.

I also received many appreciative letters, and was frequently stopped
in the street by strangers who begged to shake hands with the author of
_The Trojans_.

Were these not compensations for the diatribes of my foes? In spite of
the cutting and polishing (I called it mutilation) that my _Trojans_
suffered at the hands of Carvalho, it only ran twenty-one nights. The
receipts did not reach his expectations; he cancelled the engagement of
Madame Charton-Demeur, who left for Madrid, and to my great comfort my
work disappeared from the play-bills.

Nevertheless, being both author and composer, my royalties for those
twenty-one performances and the sale of the piano score in Paris and
London amounted--to my unspeakable joy--to about the annual income I
derived from the _Journal des Débats_, and I was, therefore, able to
resign my post as critic.

Freedom, after thirty years of slavery! No more articles to concoct,
no more platitudes to excuse, no more commonplaces to extol, no more
righteous wrath to bottle up, no more lies, no more farces, no more
cowardly compromises! Free! I need never more set foot in theatre!
Gloria in excelsis! Thanks to _The Trojans_ the wretched quill-driver
is free!!

       *       *       *       *       *

My _Beatrice_, having been a success at Baden in August 1862, was
translated into German, and, at the request of the Grand Duchess of
Saxe-Weimar, was given at Weimar in April 1863. Their Serene Highnesses
desired me to direct the two first performances, and, as usual,
overwhelmed me with kindness.

So did the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, who sent his Kapellmeister
to invite me to conduct a concert at Löwenberg, his present residence.

He told me that his orchestra knew all my symphonies, and wished for a
programme drawn exclusively from my own works.

“Your Highness,” I said, “since your orchestra knows all, be pleased to
choose for yourself. I will conduct whatever you wish.”

He therefore chose _King Lear_, the festival and love-scene from
_Romeo_, the _Carnaval Romain_ overture, and _Harold in Italy_. As he
had no harpist, Madame Pohl of Weimar, with her husband, was invited.

The Prince had greatly changed since my visit in 1842; he was a martyr
to gout, and was, after all, unable to be present at the concert he had
planned. He was keenly disappointed, for, said he, “You are not a mere
conductor; you are the orchestra itself; it is hard that I cannot reap
the benefit of your stay here.”

He has built a splendid music-room in the castle, with a musical
library; the orchestra is composed of about fifty _musical_ musicians,
and their conductor, M. Seifriz, is both patient and talented. They
are not worried with lesson-giving, church or theatre work, but belong
exclusively to the Prince.

My rooms were close to the concert hall, and the first afternoon, at
four, a servant came to say:

“Monsieur, the orchestra awaits you.”

There I found the forty-five silent artists, instruments in hand and
all in tune!!

They rose courteously to receive me, _King Lear_ was on the desk,
I raised my baton and everything went with spirit, smoothness, and
precision, so that--not having heard the piece for ten or twelve
years--I said to myself in amazement: “It is tremendous! Can I really
have written it?”

The rest was just as good, and I said to the players:

“Gentlemen, to rehearse with you is simply a farce; I have not a single
objection to make.”

The Kapellmeister played the viola solo of _Harold_ perfectly (in the
other pieces he returned to his violin), and I can truly say that never
have I heard it more perfectly done.

And ah! how they sang the _adagio_ of _Romeo_! We were transported to
Verona, Löwenberg was gone. At the end Seifriz rose and, after waiting
a moment to conquer his emotion, cried in French: “There is nothing
finer in music!”

Then the orchestra burst into storms of applause, and I bit my lip....
Messengers passed constantly back and forth to the poor Prince in his
bed to report progress, but nothing consoled him for his absence.
Every few minutes during dinner he would either send for me or a big,
powdered lacquey would bring me a pencilled note on a silver salver.
Sometimes I would spend half an hour at his bedside and listen to his
praises. He knows all that I have written, both prose and music.

On the day of the concert a brilliant audience filled the hall; by
their enthusiasm one could see that my music was an old friend. After
the _Pilgrim’s March_ an officer came on to the platform and pinned on
my coat the cross of Hohenzollern. The secret had been so well guarded
that I had not the slightest idea of such an honour.

But it pleased me so greatly that, just for my own satisfaction, and
without thought of the public, I played the orgie from _Harold_ in my
very own style--furiously--so that it made me grind my teeth.

I might say much more of this charming interlude of my life, but I
must only mention the exquisite cordiality of the Prince’s circle and
particularly of the family of Colonel Broderotti, whose perfect French
was a real relief to me, since I dislike to hear my own language badly
spoken yet know no German. As I took leave of the Prince he embraced
me, saying:

“You are going to Paris, my dear Berlioz, where many love you. Tell
them I love them for it.”

But I must go back to _Beatrice_.

To my mind it is one of the liveliest and most original things I have
ever done, although it is difficult--especially in the men’s parts.
Unlike _The Trojans_ it is inexpensive to mount; but they will take
precious care not to have it in Paris; they are right, it is not
Parisian music at all. With his usual generosity, M. Benazet paid me
four thousand francs for the music and the same for the words--eight
thousand in all, and gave me another thousand to conduct it the
following year.

The Maidens’ duet became very popular in Germany and I remember making
the Grand Duke laugh heartily about it one night at supper. He had been
catechising me on my life in Paris and my revelations anent our musical
world sadly disillusioned him.

“How, when and where did you write that lovely duet?” he asked, “surely
by moonlight in some romantic spot----”

“Sir,” I replied, “it was one of those scenes that artists mark and
store up for future use and which come forth when needed, no matter
amid what surroundings. I sketched it in at the Institute during an
oration of one of my colleagues.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed he, “that speaks well for the orator. His eloquence
must have been great.”

Later on it was performed at one of our Conservatoire concerts and
made an unheard-of sensation. Even my faithful hissers dared not
uplift their voices. Mesdames Viardot and Vanderheufel-Duprez sang it
deliciously, and the marvellous orchestra was dainty and graceful.
It was one of those performances one sometimes hears--in dreams. The
Conservatoire Society, directed by my friend, Georges Hainl, was no
longer inimical to me and proposed to give excerpts from my scores
occasionally. I have now presented it with my whole musical library,
with the exception of the operas; it ought some day to be fairly
valuable and it could not be in better hands.

I must not forget to mention the Strasburg festival, where I conducted
my _Childhood of Christ_ in a vast building seating six thousand
people. I had five hundred performers, and to my surprise, this
work--written almost throughout in a quiet, tender vein--made a
tremendous impression, the mystic, unaccompanied chorus, “O my soul!”
even causing tears.

Ah! how happy am I when my audience weeps!

I have heard since that many of my works have been given in America,
Russia and Germany.

So much the better! Could I but live a hundred and forty years my
musical life would become distinctly interesting.

       *       *       *       *       *

I had married again--_it was my duty_, and after eight years my wife
died suddenly of heart disease. Some time after her burial in the great
cemetery at Montmartre, my dear friend, Edouard Alexandre (the organ
builder, whose goodness to me has been unbounded), thinking her grave
too humble, made me a present of a plot of ground _in perpetuity_.
There a vault was built and I was obliged to be present at the
re-interment. It was a heart-rending scene and quite broke me down;
I seemed to have touched the lowest depths of misery, but this was
nothing to what followed soon after.

I was officially notified that the small cemetery at Montmartre, where
Henriette lay, was to be closed and that I must remove her dear body. I
gave the necessary orders and one gloomy morning set out alone for the
deserted burial-ground. A municipal officer awaited me and as I came up
a sexton jumped down into the open grave. The ten years buried coffin
was still intact with the exception of the cover, decayed by damp, and
the man, instead of lifting it to the surface, pulled at the rotten
boards, which tearing asunder with a hideous noise, left the remains
exposed.

Stooping, he took in his hands that fleshless head, discrowned and
gaunt, the head of poor Ophelia and placed it in the new coffin lying
on the brink of the grave--alas! alas! Again he stooped and raised the
headless trunk, a black repulsive mass in its discoloured shroud--it
fell with a dull, hopeless sound into its place. The officer a few
paces off, stood watching. Seeing me leaning against a cypress tree he
cried:

“Come nearer, M. Berlioz, come nearer.”

And, to add a grotesque weirdness to this horrible spectacle he added,
misusing a word:

“Ah, poor _inhumanity_!”

In a few moments we followed the hearse down the hill to the great
cemetery, where the new vault yawned before us. Henriette was laid
within and there those dear dead women await me.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am nearly sixty-one; past hope, past visions, past high thoughts; my
son is far away; I am alone; my scorn for the dishonesty and imbecility
of men, my hatred of their insane malignity are at their height; and
every day I say again to Death:

“When thou wilt!”

Why does he tarry?




XXXVI

ESTELLE ONCE MORE


                   _To_ M. and Mme MASSART.

    “PARIS, _August 1864_.--Yes, really and truly! Marshal
    Vaillant has written a charming letter to tell me that the Emperor
    has appointed us officers of the Legion of Honour[30]--yes, madame,
    both you and me. So arrange about changing your ribbon, etc.

    “You would not go and dine with the Minister. Sixty of us were
    there, including His Excellency’s dog, who drank coffee out of his
    master’s cup.

    “A great author, M. Mérimée, said to me:

    “‘You ought to have been made an
    officer long ago, which shows that I am not in the Ministry.’

    “You see I am a little better to-day and therefore more idiotic
    than usual; I hope this will find you the same.

    “Paris is _en fête_ and you are not here! The Villerville beach
    must be very dismal, how can you stay on there?

    “Massart goes shooting--he kills sea-gulls or perhaps an occasional
    sperm-whale--God only knows how you kill time! You have deserted
    your piano and I would not mind betting that when you come home you
    will hardly be able to play that easiest of scales--B natural major!

    “Shall I come and see you? You may safely say ‘yes’ for I shall
    not come. Forgive me! I am getting serious again, the pain is
    beginning and I most go to bed. Heartiest greetings to you both.”


                   _To_ A. MOREL.

    “_August 1864._--Thank you for your cordial letter. The officer’s
    cross and Vaillant’s letter pleased me--both for my friends’ sake
    and my enemies’. How _can_ you keep any illusions about music in
    France? Everything is dead except stupidity.

    “I am almost alone. Louis has gone back to St Nazaire and all my
    friends are scattered except Heller, whom I see sometimes. We dine
    together at Asnières and are about as lively as owls; I read and
    re-read; in the evenings I stroll past the theatres in order to
    enjoy the pleasure of not going in. Yesterday I found a comfortable
    seat on a tomb in Montmartre cemetery and slept for two hours.

    “Sometimes I go and see Madame Erard at Passy, where I am welcomed
    with open arms; I relish having no articles to write and being
    thoroughly lazy.

    “Paris gets daily more beautiful; it is a pleasure to watch her
    blossoming out.

    “I hear there is to be a mighty festival at Carlsruhe; Liszt has
    gone there from Rome and they are going to discourse ear-splitting
    music. It is the pow-wow of young Germany presided over by Hans von
    Bulow.”

Rarely have I suffered from _ennui_ so terribly as I did during the
beginning of September 1864.

My friends were away except Stephen Heller, the delicate wit and
learned musician, who has written so much lovely music for the piano
and whose gentle melancholy and devotion to the true deities of Art
made him to me such a grateful companion. My son was home from Mexico,
he, too, was not lively and we often pooled our gloom and dined
together.

One day, after dinner at Asnières, we walked beside the river and
discussed Shakespeare and Beethoven, my son taking part in the
Shakespeare portion, since, unfortunately, he was then unacquainted
with Beethoven. We finally agreed that it was worth while living in
order to worship the Beautiful, and if we could not annihilate all that
is inimical to it we must be content to despise the commonplace and
recognise it as little as possible. The sun was setting; we sat on the
river-bank opposite the isle of Neuilly, and, as we watched the wayward
wheeling of the swallows over the water, I suddenly remembered where I
was.

I looked at my son--I thought of his mother.

Once more, in spirit, I lay half asleep in the snow as I had done
in that very spot thirty-six years before, during those frenzied
wanderings around Paris.

Once again I recalled Hamlet’s cold remark over the Ophelia he loved no
longer, “What! the fair Ophelia?”

“Long ago,” I said to my companion, “one winter’s day, I was nearly
drowned here trying to cross the Seine on the ice. I had walked
aimlessly since early morning----” Louis sighed.

The following week he left me, and a great yearning for Vienne,
Grenoble, above all, Meylan, came over me. I wished to see my nieces
and--one other woman, if I could get her address.

I left Paris. My brother-in-law, Suat, and his two daughters met me
with joy. But my joy was chastened, for on entering their drawing-room
the portrait of my dear Adèle--now four years dead--faced me. It was
a terrible blow, and my nieces looked on in sorrowful amazement at my
grief.

Daily familiarity with the room, its furniture, the portrait, had
already softened their loss to them; to me all was fresh.

Dear tender-hearted Adèle! my willing slave, my indulgent guardian. How
well I remember one day, after I came from Italy, that it rained in
torrents, and I said:

“Adèle, come for a walk.”

“Certainly, dear boy,” she said, promptly; “wait till I get my
galoshes.”

“Really,” said my elder sister, “you must be quite crazy to want to
paddle about the fields in such weather.”

But, despite mockery and jokes, we took a big umbrella and arm-in-arm
walked about six miles without speaking a word. We loved each other.

After spending a peaceful fortnight with my brother-in-law, during
which he got me Madame F.’s address in Lyons, I could no longer resist
a pilgrimage to St Eynard, such as I had made sixteen years before.

There soared the ancient rock, there stood the small white house ...
to-day, her old home; to-morrow, perhaps, Estelle herself! Sixteen
years had passed as one night, all was unchanged. The little shady
path, the old tower, the leafy vines, the glorious view over the
valley. Till then I had kept calm, only murmuring, “Estelle! Estelle!
Estelle!” but now, overcome with emotion, I fell prone on my face,
hearing with each heart-beat the fatal words:

“Past! Past! Gone for ever!”

I arose, and chipping from the tower a morsel of stone that she
perchance may have touched, went on my way.

There is the rock whereon I laid my posy of pink peas--but where are
the flowers? Gone, or perhaps only past their flowering stage. Here is
the cherry tree. How grown!

I break off a fragment of bark and, passing my arms around the trunk,
press it passionately to my breast.

Dear tree, you remember her! You understand!

At the avenue gate I resolved to go up to the house; perhaps the new
owners would not be too suspicious of me. In the garden I met an old
lady who seemed startled at the sight of a stranger.

“Pardon me, madame,” I stammered, “might I go through your garden--in
memory of--old friends?”

“Certainly, monsieur, go where you will.”

Further on a girl was on a ladder gathering pears. I bowed and passed
on, pushing my way through the bushes, now so neglected, and cutting a
branch of syringa to hide next my heart. As I came to the open door,
I paused on the threshold to look in. The maiden of the pear tree, no
doubt warned by her mother, came forward and courteously asked me in.

That little room, looking over the wide valley, that _she_ had so
proudly shown me when I was twelve years old--the same furniture, the
same----I tore my handkerchief with my teeth. The girl watched me
uneasily.

“Do not mind me, mademoiselle. All is so strange--I have not--been here
for forty-nine years!”

And, bursting into tears, I fled.

What could those ladies have thought of that strange scene, to which
they never got a key?

Reader, do I repeat myself? In sooth it is always so; remembrance,
regret, a weary soul clutching at the past, fighting despairingly to
retain the flying present. Always this useless struggle against time,
always this wild desire to realise the impossible, always this frantic
thirst for perfect love! How can I help repeating myself? The sea
repeats itself; are not all its waves akin?

       *       *       *       *       *

That night I reached Lyons and spent a sleepless night thinking of my
meeting with Madame F.

I decided to go at noon, and to send the following letter to prepare
her for her visitor:

    “MADAME,--I have just come from Meylan, from my second
    pilgrimage to the hallowed haunts of my childhood’s dreams. It has
    been even more painful than that of sixteen years ago, after which
    I wrote to you at Vif. This time I ask for more; I dare to beg you
    to see me. I can control myself; you need fear no transports from a
    heart out-worn and crushed by the pressure of cruel Fate. Give me
    but a few moments! Let me see you, I implore.

“_23rd September 1864._        HECTOR BERLIOZ.”


I could not wait till noon. At half-past eleven I rang; gave her
maid my card and the letter. She was at home. I ought only to have
sent up the letter, but I was past knowing what I was doing. Without
hesitation she came to meet me. I at once recognised her graceful yet
stately air--the step of a goddess. But, ah! how changed her face! Her
complexion darkened, her hair silvered.

Yet my heart went out to my idol as though she had been in all the
freshness of her youthful beauty.

Holding my note, she led the way to her drawing-room. My emotions
choked me, I was dumb; with gentle dignity she began:

“We are old acquaintances, M. Berlioz----” Silence.

“We were but children then----” Still silence.

Feeble as the cry of a drowning man came my halting voice:

“My letter--madame--explains this visit; would you but read it----”

[Illustration: GRENOBLE]

She opened and read it, then laid it on the chimney-piece.

“Then you have been in Meylan; by chance, no doubt?”

“Oh, madame, can you believe it needed chance to take me there? For how
long had I not yearned to see it once more?”

Again silence.

“Your life has been a stirring one, M. Berlioz.”

“How do you know, madame?”

“I have read your biography--by Méry, I think. I bought it some years
ago.”

“Pray, do not think that my friend Méry, an artist and a clever man, is
guilty of such a tissue of fables and nonsense as that! I believe I can
guess the real author. But I shall soon have a true biography ready,
one I have written myself.”

“And you write so well!”

“Nay, madame, I do not mean to praise the style, but simply to say that
at least it will be true. In it, without naming you, I have been able
to tell all my feeling for you without restraint.”

Silence.

“I have also heard of you,” went on Madame F., “from a friend of yours
who married my husband’s niece.”

“Yes, it is he whom I asked to tell me the fate of a letter I wrote you
sixteen years ago. I longed to know whether you received it. I never
saw him again, and now he is dead.”

Silence.

“My life has been very quiet, very sad. I lost some of my children, and
my husband died while the others were very young. I did my best alone
to bring them up well.”

Silence.

“I am indeed grateful, M. Berlioz, for the kind thoughts you have kept
of me.”

At her gentle words my heart beat yet more violently.

With hungry eyes I gazed and gazed, clothing her once more in the
beauty of long past days. At length I said:

“Madame, give me your hand.”

Pressing it to my lips, my heart turned to water within me, the world
sank away, a long and blessed silence brooded over us.

“Dare I hope,” I murmured, “that I may write to you? That, at long
distant intervals, I may even see you?”

“Oh, certainly; but I am leaving Lyons soon to live with my son who,
after his marriage, is to settle in Geneva.”

I rose, not daring to stay longer. She came with me to the door,
saying, “Good-bye, M. Berlioz, good-bye. I am more grateful than I can
tell you for your long and sweet memory of me.”

Once more I bent over her hand, pressing it to my burning forehead,
then tore myself away but only to wander, aimlessly and feverishly,
near her dwelling.

As I watched the swirling Rhone rush under the Pont Morand, M.
Strakosch, brother-in-law of Adelina Patti, came up to me.

“You!” he cried, “Good-luck! Adelina will be so glad to see you. She is
singing to-morrow in the _Barbiere_; will you have a box?”

“Many thanks, I may be leaving this evening.”

“Well, anyway come to dinner with us to-day. You know how much pleasure
it gives us.”

“I dare not promise--It depends--I am not very well--Where are you
staying?”

“Grand Hotel.”

“So am I. Well, if I am not too unsociable this evening I will come.
But don’t wait.”

I suddenly thought of an excuse to see Madame F. once more. If she
would go to the theatre I would stay also, if she would allow me the
honour of escorting her. If she would not I would leave at once.

I hurried round to her house. She was out but I left a message with her
maid and then went off to pass a day of torturing uncertainty. Hour
after hour went by and no answer came, time after time I returned to
find the house shut up and to get no answer to my ring.

Could it be that she had told her people not to admit me?

What would become of me! Where should I go! What do! There seemed no
refuge for me but the Rhone!

Finally in one last despairing attempt I heard ladies’ voices above me
on the stairs and saw her coming down, a note in her hand.

“Oh, M. Berlioz, I am so sorry I have only just got your message and
here is my answer. Unfortunately I shall be away from home to-morrow; a
thousand pardons for the inconvenience I have caused you.”

She was putting the letter in her pocket when I cried:

“Oh, please let me have it!”

“It is hardly worth while----”

“I beg of you, since it was meant for me.”

She gave it me and for the first time I saw her writing.

“Then I shall see you no more?”

“Not if you leave to-night. May your journey be pleasant.”

Pressing my hand, she and her two friends passed on, leaving me--can it
be believed?--almost happy.

I had seen, had spoken to her again, I had a letter from her in which
she sent me her _kindest regards_.

With my unhoped-for treasure I went back to the hotel to dine with
Mademoiselle Patti.

As I entered her _salon_ the charming diva clapped her hands joyously
and danced up to me, holding up her lovely forehead for my accustomed
kiss.

During dinner she spoilt me with her dainty coaxing attentions.

“There is something wrong with you,” she said, “what are you thinking
of? I can’t have you miserable.”

They came with me to the station, she, with a friend and Strakosch, and
they were allowed to go on to the platform. Adelina, dear child, clung
to me until the signal was given, then the winsome creature flung both
arms round my neck and kissed me, crying gaily:

“Good-bye, good-bye just for a week. We shall be in Paris on Tuesday
and you must come and see us on Thursday.”

Why could I not claim such affection from Madame F. and mere politeness
from Mademoiselle Patti?

Adelina was like a brilliant, diamond-eyed humming-bird fluttering
round me; I was enchanted but not touched. Though I liked her greatly,
I did not _love_ her.

My soul was given to that old, sad, unsought after woman, hers it has
always been and will be to my dying day.

Balzac and even Shakespeare--master painters of passions--knew nothing
of love like this. Tom Moore alone has imagined and voiced it in--

    “Believe me if all those endearing young charms.”

How often, through that long night journey, did I repeat:

“Idiot! why did you leave? You might have seen her again to-morrow.”
True, but the fear of being troublesome restrained me and what could I
have done in Lyons during the hours we were apart? it would have been
but torture.

After a few miserable days of indecision in Paris I wrote the following
letter, which shows my deplorable state and her beautiful calm.

How much worse off am I now that I cannot even write to her! To enjoy
that romantic friendship to the end would have been too great a
blessing. Wounded, torn, alone, unsatisfied must I totter to my grave!

    “PARIS, _27th September 1864_.--Madame! A thousand
    blessings on you for your gentle reception of me! Few women could
    have done as much; yet since our meeting, I suffer most cruelly. It
    is useless to repeat to myself that you could not have done more
    than you have; my wounded heart bleeds on unstaunched. I ask, why?
    why? and my only answer is: because I saw you so little; because I
    said but a tithe of all I wished; because we parted as if for ever.

    “Yet I held your hand, I pressed it to my lips--to my forehead and
    kept back my tears as I had promised.

    “And now the inexorable thirst for another word from you has
    conquered me; in pity grant it!

    “Think! for forty-five years I have loved you; you are my
    childhood’s dream that has weathered all the storms of my most
    stormy life. It _must_ be true--this love of a life-time--could it,
    else, master me as it still does?

    “Do not take me for an eccentric, a plaything of my own
    imagination; I am but a man of intense sensibility, of eternal
    constancy and of overwhelmingly strong affections. I loved you, I
    love you still, I shall always love you, although I am sixty-one
    and for me the world has no more illusions.

    “Grant me, I pray you, not as a nurse, from a sense of duty to her
    sick patient, but as a noble woman stooping to heal wounds she has
    unwittingly given--grant me those three things that, alone, can
    give me peace: permission to write sometimes, your undertaking to
    reply and a promise that once a year, at least, you will allow me
    to visit you.

    “If I called without your permission I might arrive at the wrong
    time, therefore I shall not venture near you unless you say: ‘Come.’

    “Surely there is nothing strange or wrong in this? Could there be
    a purer or more beautiful bond? Who shall say us nay? Still, I
    must own that it would be painful to meet you only amongst others,
    therefore if you bid me come it will be that we may talk as we did
    last Friday when, so deeply was I moved, that I could not savour
    the sweet sad charm by reason of my terror lest emotion should get
    beyond control. Oh, madame! madame! I have but one end in life--to
    gain your affection!

    “Give me but leave to try! I will be so humble, so restrained;
    my letters shall be as infrequent as you wish lest they become a
    burden to you; five lines only from you will suffice me. My visits
    will be but rare; yet, if our thoughts may meet, I shall feel
    that--after these long and dreary years during which I have been
    nothing to you--I may in time become your friend. Friends with such
    devotion as mine are not too often found. I will encircle you with
    love so sweet, so tender, with affection so compounded of all that
    is simplest in a child and all that is best and grandest in a man
    that, surely, in time you will feel its charm and turn to me one
    day, saying:

    “I am in very deed your friend.”

    “Adieu, madame, once more I read your note of the 23rd with its
    assurance of your _sentiments affectueux_. Surely this is no mere
    formality? Tell me truly--truly!--Yours to eternity,

                               HECTOR BERLIOZ.”

    “_P.S._--I send you three books; perhaps you will glance at them
    in your leisure moments. Do you see the author’s device to make you
    take a little interest in him?”


                   MADAME F.’S _Answer_.

                               “LYONS, _29th September 1864_.

    “MONSIEUR,--I should wrong both you and myself did I not
    reply at once to your dream of our future friendship; believe me, I
    speak from my heart.

    “I am an old woman (remember I am six years your senior), worn and
    withered by bodily pain and mental anguish, with all my earthly
    illusions swept away.

    “Since the fatal day, twenty years ago, that I lost my best friend,
    I have said good-bye to worldly pleasures, and have found my sole
    consolation in a few old friends and in my children.

    “In this absolute calm, alone, can I find rest, and to upset it
    would be burdensome indeed.

    “In your letter of the 27th you say you have but one wish--that
    I may become your friend. Do you believe, monsieur, that this
    could possibly be? I hardly know you, I have seen you but once in
    forty-nine years; how can I understand your tastes, your character,
    your capacities--all those hundred and one points upon which,
    alone, friendship can be based?

    “With two people of like affinities, sympathy may be born and grow
    into friendship, but, far apart as we are, no correspondence could
    bring about what you desire.

    “Besides, I must confess that I am most lazy about letters; my
    mind is as torpid as my fingers. I could not, therefore, promise
    to write regularly, for the promise would certainly not be kept.
    Still, if you feel a certain pleasure in writing, I will read your
    letters, although you must not expect speedy replies.

    “Neither can I promise to receive you alone. At Geneva, in the
    house of my son and his wife, it would be impossible for me to
    arrange matters as you wish.

    “I tell you all this with perfect frankness, for I feel so strongly
    that, as grey hairs come, dreams must be thrust aside--such
    friendships belong to the happy days of youth, not to the
    disenchantments of old age.

    “My future is so short; why indulge in a dream that must fade so
    quickly? Why create these vain regrets?

    “In what I say, monsieur, do not think that I wish to wound you, to
    belittle your remembrance of the past. I respect it, and am greatly
    touched.

    “You are still young at heart, and I am old and good for nothing
    but to keep a warm place for you in my memory. In your triumphs I
    shall always take a cordial interest.

    “Again, monsieur, I send you my affectionate regards.

                               ESTELLE F----.”

    “I have received the books you so kindly sent. A thousand thanks.”


                   _Second Letter._

                               “PARIS, _2nd October 1864_.

    “MADAME,--I have not answered sooner, hoping that I
    might overcome the terrible depression caused by your letter--a
    masterpiece of sad truth.

    “You are right to avoid all that might disturb your calm; but
    be assured that I should never have done so, and that this
    friendship, for which I so humbly begged, should never have become
    _burdensome_. (Is not this rather a cruel word?)

    “But you will take an interest in my career, and for that I
    kiss your hand with deepest gratitude. Yet, with tears, with
    importunity, I pray for news of you sometimes.

    “You talk so bravely of old age that I must e’en be brave too. I
    pray I may die first that I may send you my last farewell! But if I
    must hear that you have left this sad earth ... will your son tell
    it me?--pardon!

    “Give me, at least, what you would give to the merest
    stranger--your address at Geneva.

    “I will not go there for a year, I fear to trouble you; but your
    address! your address! If your silence shows that you refuse
    even this meagre concession, you will have put a crown on the
    unhappiness you might have softened.

    “Then, madame, may God and your conscience forgive you!

    “Lost in the cold dark night wherein you have thrust me, I shall
    wander--grieving, suffering, alone, but still,--Yours devotedly
    until death,

                               HECTOR BERLIOZ.”




                   MADAME F.’S _Second Letter_.

                               “LYONS, _14th October 1864_.

    “MONSIEUR,--I write in haste, that you may believe I have
    no wish to be unkind. My son is to be married on the 19th, and I
    shall have much to do.

    “Immediately afterwards I must prepare to go to Geneva--no light
    task for my weak health. Early in November I leave, and, as soon as
    I am settled in my new home, you shall have my address, which I do
    not yet know.

    “I would have waited to get it from my son, but I feared to pain
    you by my long silence.”


                   _Third Letter._

                               “_15th October 1864._

    “MADAME,--Oh, thank you! thank you! I will wait.

    “My best wishes for the young couple and for you!

    “Dear lady, may this solemn time bring you ineffable joy.

    “Ah, how good you are!

    “Do not fear that my adoration will become unreasonable.--Your
    devoted

                               HECTOR BERLIOZ.”



After an impatient fortnight, I received the announcement of M. Charles
F.’s marriage, addressed in his mother’s writing; which filled me with
a joy that few can understand. I was in the seventh heaven, and wrote
at once:--

    “_28th October 1864._--Life is beautiful under certain aspects. I
    have received the notice addressed by you! A thought for the poor
    exile. May your good angel render fourfold the good you have done!
    Yes, life is beautiful, but how much more beautiful death. To be at
    your feet, my head upon your knee, your two hands clasped in mine,
    and so to end----

                               HECTOR BERLIOZ.”



Days passed into weeks; Madame F. had gone to Geneva. Could she intend
to withhold her address? To break her word?

During that anxious time I believed I should write to her no more, and
my heart despaired.

But one morning, as I sat drearily musing beside the fire, a card was
brought to me:--

                   “M. ET MME CHARLES F----.”

The son and his wife, and _she_ had sent them!

Yet how greatly it upset me to find the young man the living image of
his mother at eighteen.

The bride seemed quite bewildered at my emotion, although her husband
was not; evidently he knew all; Madame F. had shown my letters.

“How beautiful she must have been!” cried the young wife.

“Oh!----”

“Yes,” said M. F., “I remember even now how dazzled I was, at five
years old, on seeing my mother dressed for a ball.”

Gradually I subdued my feelings, and was able to talk sensibly to my
visitors. Madame C. F. was a Dutch creole of Java, and knew Rajah
Brooke of Sarawak.

How much I should have had to ask her had I been in my usual state of
mind.

I saw them pleasantly often during their stay in Paris, and we talked
of _her_. As we grew more friendly, the bride scolded me for writing as
I had done.

“You frighten her,” she said. “Remember she hardly knows you. You must
learn to be calm, then your visits to Geneva will be delightful, and we
shall be so happy to see you. You will come, will you not?”

“Can you doubt it, if Madame F. gives me permission?”

Schooling myself rigidly, I gave them no letter for their mother when
they left; but, as my _Trojans_ was to be given, I sent her a copy of
the poem, begging her to read the page I had marked with some dead
leaves at half-past two on the 18th December, the time at which that
passage would be played in Paris. Madame C. F. was to be back in Paris
then, and hoped to be present at this concert, which was making some
stir in the musical world.

A fortnight went by and she did not come, neither did I have a letter.
I was almost at the end of my patience, although I would not write,
when, on the 17th, Madame C. F. returned bringing me the following
letter:

                               “GENEVA, _16th December 1864_.

    “MONSIEUR,--I ought to have thanked you sooner for your
    charming welcome of my son and his wife had I not been unwell, and
    consequently, very idle.

    “But I cannot let my daughter-in-law go without my grateful thanks
    for all the pleasure you have given them.

    “Suzanne will tell you all about our life here; I should be as
    happy as in Lyons, were it not for my separation from my other two
    sons and from my dear old friends.

    “Once more, thank you for the libretto of _The Trojans_, and also
    for the sweet souvenir of the Meylan leaves--they bring back the
    bright, happy days of my youth.

    “My son and I will read the part of your work that you have marked,
    and shall think of Suzanne listening to your music on Sunday.”

To which I replied:

    “PARIS, _19th December 1864_.--Last September, when at
    Grenoble, I visited one of my cousins, who lives near St Georges, a
    wretched hamlet niched into the most barren mountains on the left
    bank of the Drac, inhabited only by a few miserable peasants.

    “My cousin’s sister-in-law is the sweet providence of this forsaken
    corner, and on the day of my arrival she heard that one far-away
    family had had no bread for three weeks.

    “She started off at once to see the mother.

    “‘Why, Jeanne!’ she cried, ‘how could
    you be in trouble and not tell me? You know how anxious we are to
    help.’

    “‘Oh, mademoiselle, we are not really
    in want yet; we still have some potatoes and a few cabbages, only
    the children don’t like them. They shout and cry for bread. You
    know children are so unreasonable.’

    “Well, dear lady, you too have done a kind thing in writing.
    I would not write for fear of boring you, so waited for your
    daughter’s return. She came not! My anxiety choked me. You see,
    madame, creatures such as I are _unreasonable_.

    “Yet surely I--if anyone--hardly need to learn lessons that have
    been taught me already by so many knife-thrusts in my heart.

    “It seems to me that you are sad, and that makes me the more....
    From to-day I mean to restrain my language, to talk of outward
    things only.

    “You know what is in my heart--all that I do not say.

    “Perhaps you already know that, thanks to the thousand and one
    annoyances brought upon me by the Conservatoire committee, my
    _Trojans_ was not performed yesterday. Still, I thank you for the
    time you have spent in thought with us in the concert-room. My
    son, who has done well in Mexico, has just landed at St Nazaire.
    He is first lieutenant of his ship, and, as he cannot come to
    Paris, I am going to Brittany to see him. He is a good boy, but
    is, unfortunately, too much like his father, and cannot reconcile
    himself to the commonplaces and troubles of this world.

    “We love each other dearly.

    “My aged mother-in-law, whom I have promised never to leave, takes
    the greatest care of me, and accepts unquestioningly my gloomy
    tempers. I read again and again Shakespeare, Virgil, Homer, _Paul
    and Virginia_, and travels of all kinds. I am horribly bored and
    suffer agonies from neuralgia that doctors have tried in vain, for
    nine years, to cure.

    “When the pains of mind, body and estate grow too much for me, I
    take three drops of laudanum to snatch some sleep.

    “If I feel better I go and see my friends, M. and Mme Damcke.

    “He is a German composer of rare gifts; his wife is an angel of
    goodness to me.

    “There I do as I like. If I am in the humour we talk or play; if
    not, they draw up a big sofa to the fire, and there I lie the
    whole evening without a word--chewing the cud of sweet and bitter
    fancies. This, madame, is all.

    “You know that I neither write nor compose, for the present state
    of art in Paris makes me both sick and sorry--which proves that I
    am not dead yet!

    “I hope to have the honour of escorting Madame C. F. and a Russian
    friend of hers to the Théâtre Italien to hear Donizetti’s _Poliuto_.

    “Madame Charton will give me a box.

    “Good-bye, madame. May your thoughts be blest, your heart at rest,
    and your life serene in the assured love of your children and
    friends. But send a thought sometimes to the _poor child who is
    unreasonable_.--Your devoted

                               H. B.”

    “_P.S._--It was good of you to send the bride and bridegroom to see
    me. I was so struck with the likeness of M. Charles to Mademoiselle
    Estelle that, although such compliments are out of place to a man,
    I so far forgot myself as to tell him so.”

Some time later she wrote:

    “Believe me, I am not without sympathy for _unreasonable children_.
    I have always found the best way to quiet them is to give them
    pictures to look at.

    “I therefore take the liberty of sending you one that I hope,
    by bringing home the reality of the present, will wipe out the
    illusion of the past.”

She sent me her portrait! My dear lady!

And here I stop.

Now I can live calmly. I shall write, she will reply. I shall see her,
shall know where she is, and shall never again be without news of her.

Perhaps, in spite of her dread of new ties, her affection for me may
grow slowly and quietly. Already life seems more possible, since the
past is not irretrievably over and done with.

No longer is my heaven overcast. My sweet bright star smiles upon me
from afar. She does not love me, truly, but why should she? She knows,
however, that I love her.

I must find consolation in the thought that she knew me too late, just
as I comfort myself for not having known Virgil, Gluck, Beethoven or
Shakespeare--who might, perhaps, have loved me too.

(All the same, I am not comforted in the very least!)

       *       *       *       *       *

Which power raises man the higher? Love or Music? It is a great
question. It seems to me that one might say this: “Love cannot give an
idea of music, but music can give an idea of love--why separate them?”

They are the twin wings of the soul.

       *       *       *       *       *

Seeing the conception some people have of Love, and what they look for
in Art, makes me liken them to swine rooting in a bed of lovely flowers
and among mighty oaks, hoping to turn up with their snouts the truffles
for which they are greedy.

I will think no more of Art.... Stella! Stella! I can die now without
bitterness or anger.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1st January 1865._

       *       *       *       *       *

[This is the end of Berlioz’ own Memoir. The rest of his life must be
gathered from the few remaining letters to his intimate friends and
from M. Bernard’s short account of his last days.]




XXXVII

THE AFTERGLOW


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “PARIS, _28th October 1864_.--Dear Humbert,--On returning
    from my visit to Dauphiny I found your sad letter. You must have
    had difficulty in writing, yet your young friend, M. Bernard, tells
    me you are able to go out sometimes, leaning on a friendly arm.

    “When first I went into the country my neuralgia was better, but
    very soon it came back worse than ever, from eight in the morning
    till four in the afternoon.

    “Then, oh! my weariness and troubles of all sorts!

    “Nevertheless, there are compensations. Louis is doing well, though
    our long partings are hard to bear, for we love each other dearly.

    “As for the musical world, the corruption in Paris is beyond
    belief, and I retire more and more into my shell.

    “_Beatrice_ is to be performed in Stuttgart, and I may go to
    conduct it. I am also asked to go to St Petersburg in March, but
    shall not do so unless they offer me a sum tempting enough to make
    me brave that horrible climate. Then I shall do it for Louis’ sake,
    for of what use are a few thousand francs more to me?

    “I cannot imagine why some people have taken to flattering me so
    grossly. Their compliments are enough to scrape the paint off the
    walls, and I long to say to them:

    “‘Monsieur, you forget that I am no
    longer a critic. I write no more for the papers.’

    “The monotony of my life has been broken lately.

    “Madame Erard, Madame Spontini and their niece begged me to read
    _Othello_ to them. The door was rigorously closed to all comers,
    and I read the masterpiece through from beginning to end to my
    audience of six, who wept gloriously.

    “Great heaven! What a revelation of the deepest depths of the human
    heart! That angel Desdemona, that noble fate-haunted Othello, that
    devil incarnate Iago! And to think that it was all written by a
    being like unto ourselves!

    “It needs long, close study to put oneself in the point of view of
    the author, to follow the magnificent sweep of his mighty wings.
    And translators are such donkeys.

    “Laroche is the best--most exact, least ignorant--yet I have to
    correct ever so many mistakes in my copy.

    “Liszt has been here for a week, and we dined together twice.

    “As we kept carefully off things musical we had a pleasant time.
    He has gone back to Rome to play the _Music of the Future_ to the
    Pope, who asks himself what on earth it all means.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_10th November 1864._--Can you believe, dear Humbert, that I have
    a grudge against the past? Why did I not know Virgil.

    “I see him dreaming in his Sicilian villa--so hospitable, so
    gracious.

    “And Shakespeare, that mighty Sphinx, impassible as a mirror,
    reflecting not creating. Yet what ineffable compassion must he not
    have had for poor, small, human things?

    “And Beethoven, rough and scornful, yet blessed with such exquisite
    tenderness and delicacy that I think I could have forgiven him all
    his contempt, his rudeness, everything!

    “And Gluck, the stately!...

    “Last week M. Blanche, the doctor of the Passy lunatic asylum,
    invited a party of artists and _savants_ to celebrate the
    anniversary of the performance of _The Trojans_.

    “I was invited and kept entirely in the dark.

    “Gounod was there. In his sweet, weak voice, but with the most
    perfect expression, he sang ‘_O nuit d’ivresse_’ with Madame
    Bauderali; then, alone, the song of Hylos.

    “A young lady played the dances, and they made me recite without
    music Dido’s scena, ‘_Va, ma sœur_.’

    “It had a fine effect. They all knew my score by heart. I longed to
    have you there.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “PARIS, _23rd December 1864_.--I have just sent you a copy
    of _La Nation_, with two columns by Gasperini about _The Trojans_
    business at the Conservatoire. I did not know of that letter of
    Gluck. Where the devil did you get it? That is always the way.
    Beethoven was even more insulted than Gluck. Weber and Spontini
    share the honour.

    “Only people like M. de Flotow, author of _Martha_, have
    panegyrists. His dull opera is sung in all languages, all theatres.

    “I went to hear that delicious little Patti sing _Martha_ the other
    day; when I came out I felt creepy all over, just as if I had come
    out of a fowlhouse--with consequences!

    “I told the little prodigy of a girl that I would _forgive_ her for
    making me listen to platitudes--that was the utmost I could do!

    “But that exquisite Irish air, ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ is
    introduced, and she sings it with such poetic simplicity that its
    perfume is almost enough to disinfect the rest of the score.

    “I will send Louis your congratulations; he will be very pleased.
    He has read your letters and thinks me fortunate in having such a
    friend as you. Good-bye.”


                   _To_ MADAME ERNST.

    “PARIS, _14th December 1864_.--You are really too good to
    have written to me, dear Madame Ernst, and I ought to reply in a
    sleek, smooth style, mouth nicely buttoned up, cravat well tied,
    myself all smiles and amiability. Well, I can’t!

    “I am ill, miserable, disgusted, bored, idiotic, wearisome, cross,
    and altogether impossible. It is one of those days when I am in the
    sort of temper that I wish the earth were a charged bomb, that I
    might light the fuse for fun.

    “The account of your Nice pleasures does not amuse me in the least.

    “I should love to see you and your dear invalid, but I could not
    accept your offer of a room. I would rather live in the cave under
    the Ponchettes.

    “There I could growl comfortably alongside Caliban (I know he lives
    there, I saw him one day), and the sea does not often come into it;
    whereas with friends, there are all sorts of unbearable attentions.

    “They ask how you pass the night, but not how your _ennui_ is
    getting on;[31] they laugh when you say silly things; are always
    mutely trying to find out whether you are sad or gay; they talk to
    you when you are only soliloquising, and then the husband says to
    the wife, ‘Do let him alone, don’t bother him,’ etc., etc. Then you
    feel a brute and go out, banging the door and feeling you have
    laid the train of a domestic quarrel.

    “Now in Caliban’s grotto there is none of this.

    “Well, never mind!

    “You stroll on the terrace and along the shady walks? And then?

    “You admire the sunsets? And then?

    “You watch the tunny fishers? And then?

    “You envy young English heiresses? And then?

    “You envy still more the idiots without ideas or feelings who
    understand nothing and love nothing? And then?...

    “Why, bless you, I can give you all that!

    “We have terraces and trees in Paris. There are sunsets, English
    heiresses, idiots (they are even more plentiful than at Nice for
    the population is larger), and gudgeon to be caught with a line.
    One can be quite as extensively bored as at Nice. It is the same
    thing everywhere.

    “Yesterday I had a delightful letter from some unknown man about
    _The Trojans_. He tells me that the Parisians are used to more
    _indulgent_ music than mine.

    “Is not that an admirable epithet?

    “The Viennese telegraph that they celebrated my birthday by giving
    _Faust_, and that the double chorus was an immense success. I did
    not even know I had a birthday!”


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.


                               “PARIS, _8th February 1864_.

    “DEAR HUMBERT,--It is six in the evening, and I have
    only just got up, for I took laudanum yesterday and am quite
    stupefied. What a life! I would bet a good deal that you too are
    worse. Nevertheless I mean to go out to-night to hear Beethoven’s
    Septuor; I want it to warm my blood, and my favourite artists are
    playing it.

    “The day after to-morrow I ought to read _Hamlet_ at Massart’s.
    Shall I have strength to go through it? It lasts five hours. Of my
    audience of five only Madame Massart knows anything of the play.

    “I feel almost afraid of bringing these artist natures too abruptly
    face to face with this supreme manifestation of genius. It seems to
    me like giving sight suddenly to one born blind.

    “I believe they will understand it, for I know them well; but to be
    forty-five or fifty and not know _Hamlet_! One might as well have
    lived down a coal mine. Shakespeare says:

    “Glory is like a circle in the water
     Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself
     Till, by wide spreading, it disperse to naught.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_26th April 1865._--How can I tell you what is cooking in the
    musical cauldron of Paris? I have got out of it and hardly ever get
    in again.

    “I went to a general rehearsal of Meyerbeer’s _Africaine_, which
    lasted from half-past seven to half-past one.

    “I don’t think I am likely to go again.

    “Joachim, the celebrated German violinist, has been here ten days;
    he plays nearly every evening at different houses. Thus I heard
    Beethoven’s piano trio in B♭♯, the sonata in A, and the quartett in
    E minor--the music of the starry spheres.

    “You will quite understand that after this I am in no mood for
    listening to commonplace productions praised by the Mayor and Town
    Council.

    “If I possibly can, I will see you this summer. I am going to
    Geneva and Grenoble.


                   _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

    “PARIS, _28th June 1865_.--I hardly know why I am writing,
    for I have nothing to say. Your letter troubles me greatly. Now
    you say you _dread_ being captain; you have no confidence in
    yourself, yet you wish to be appointed.

    “You want a home instead of your quiet room; you want to marry--but
    not an ordinary woman. It is all easy to understand, but you must
    not shrink from the duties that alone will ensure your gaining your
    end.

    “You are thirty-two, and if you do not realise the responsibility
    of life now, you never will.

    “You need money; I can give you none; I find it difficult to make
    ends meet as it is. I will leave you what my father left me,
    perhaps a little more--but I cannot tell you when I shall die.

    “In any case it must be ere long.

    “So do not speak to me of desires I cannot satisfy.

    “I, too, wish I had a fortune. First, that I might share it with
    you; and next, that I might travel and have my works performed.

    “Remember, if you were married you would be a hundred times worse
    off than you are now. Take warning from me.

    “Only a series of miracles--Paganini’s gift, my tour in Russia,
    etc., saved me from the most ghastly privations.

    “Miracles are rare, else were they not miracles.

    “Your letter has no ending. I feel as if you had suddenly realised
    the meaning of the world, society, pleasure, and pain.

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_14th July 1865._--Yes, dear Louis, let us chat whenever we can.
    Your letter was most welcome, for yesterday life was hideous.

    “I went out and wandered up and down the Boulevards des Italiens
    and des Capucines, until at half-past eight I felt hungry.

    “I went into the Café Cardinal, and there found Balfe, the Irish
    composer, who asked me to dinner.

    “Afterwards we went to the Grand Hotel, where he is staying, and I
    smoked an excellent cigar--which, all the same, made me ill this
    morning.

    “We talked and talked of Shakespeare, whom he says he has only
    really understood during the last ten or twelve years.

    “I never read the papers, so tell me where you saw those nice
    things you quote about me.

    “Do you know that Liszt has become an abbé?

    “You shall have a stitched copy of my _Mémoires_ as soon as I get
    one, but I must have your solemn promise not to let it out of your
    own hands, and to return it when you have read it.”


                   _To_ M. AND MME DAMCKE.[32]

    “HÔTEL DE LA MÉTROPOLE, GENEVA, _22nd August 1865_.--Dear
    Friends,--I only write lest you should think yourselves forgotten.
    You know I do not easily forget, and, if I did, I could never lose
    remembrance of such friends as you.

    “I am strangely and indescribably agitated here.

    “Sometimes quite calm, at others full of uneasiness--even pain.
    I was most cordially welcomed. They like me to be with them, and
    chide me when I keep away.

    “I stay there sometimes four hours at a time. We go long walks
    beside the lake. Yesterday we took a drive, but I am never alone
    with her, so can speak only of outward things, and I feel that the
    oppression of my heart will kill me.

    “What can I do? I am unjust, stupid, unreasonable.

    “They have all read the _Mémoires_. _She_ reproached me mildly for
    publishing her letters, but her daughter-in-law said I was quite
    right, and I believe she was not really vexed.

    “Already I dread the moment of departure. It is charming country,
    and the lake is most beautiful, pure and deep; yet I know something
    deeper, purer, and yet more beautiful....

    “Adieu, dear friends.”


                   _To_ MADAME MASSART.

    “PARIS, _15th September 1865_.--Good afternoon, madame.
    How are you, and how is Massart?

    “I am quite at sea, not finding you here.

    “I have come back from Geneva just as ill as I went.

    “At first I was better, but after a little the pain came again
    worse than ever.

    “How lucky you are to be free from such trouble! Having a moment’s
    respite, I use it in writing to you.”

    “You will either laugh, saying--or say, laughing, ‘Why write to me?’

    “Probably you would rather that this preposterous idea had not
    entered my head, but there it is, and, if you find it mistimed, you
    have the remedy in your own hands--not to answer.

    “All the same, the inner meaning of my letter is--to extract one
    from you. If only you could conceive the frightful impetuosity with
    which one bores oneself in Paris!

    “I am alone, more than alone. I hear never a note of music--nothing
    but gibberish to right of me, gibberish to left of me. When will
    you be back? When shall I hear you play a sonata again? I often
    talked of you in Geneva, where I was petted, spoilt--and scolded a
    little, too.

    “When you come back we will gather together our choice spirits, our
    good men and true, and read _Coriolanus_. I only really _live_ in
    watching the enthusiasm of fresh sympathetic souls--undeadened by
    the world.

    “I quite enjoyed at Vienne making my nieces cry over it. They are
    dear girls, impressionable as a photographic plate--which is rather
    odd, seeing that they have always lived in that most provincial of
    provinces, among utterly anti-literary people.

    “My thick autobiography awaits you, but remember, it is yours only
    for the time it takes you and Massart to read it. It is very sad,
    but very true.

    “I am quite ashamed that I had not the sense to speak of the many
    calm, sweet hours I owe to you, and of my deep affection for you
    both. I have only just noticed that you are not even mentioned.

    “Ah, the pain! Madame, forgive me. I can write no more!”


                   _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ.

    “_13th November 1865._--Dear Boy,--Your letter has just come, and I
    want to reply before I go back to bed.

    “How I suffer! If I could I would fly off to Palermo or to Nice.

    “It is horrible weather. I have to light a lamp at half-past three.

    “To-night is our Monday dinner, and as I shall have to get up and
    go to it, I want to snatch a little sleep first.

    “I have had no letter from Geneva, but I did not expect one. When
    one comes my heart lightens and my spirits rise.

    “My poor, dear boy. What should I do without you?

    “Can you believe that I always loved you, even when you were tiny?
    I, who find it so difficult to like little children!

    “There was always some attraction that drew me to you.

    “It weakened when you got to the stupid stage and were a
    hobbledehoy. Since then it has come back, has increased, and now,
    as you know, I love you, and my love grows daily.”


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.

    “_17th January 1866._--I am alone in the chimney corner writing to
    you.

    “I was greatly excited this morning by the manager of the Théâtre
    Lyrique, who has asked me to supervise his intended revival of
    _Armida_. It will hardly suit his pettifogging world.

    “Madame Charton-Demeurs, who undertakes the overpowering rôle of
    Armida, comes every day to rehearse with M. Saint-Saëns, a great
    pianist, a great musician, who knows his Gluck almost as well as I
    do.

    “It is curious to see the poor lady floundering blindly in the
    sublime, and to watch the gradually dawning light.

    “This morning, in the Hatred scene, Saint-Saëns and I could only
    grasp hands in silence--we were breathless!

    “Never did human being find such expression! And to think that
    this masterpiece is vilified, blasphemed, insulted, attacked on
    all sides, even by those who profess to admire it. It belongs to
    another world. Why are you not here to enjoy it too!

    “Will you believe that since I have taken to music again my pains
    have departed?

    “I get up every day just like other people. But I have quite enough
    to endure with the actors, and, above all, with the conductor. It
    is coming out in April.

    “Madame Fournier writes that a friend she met in Geneva spoke
    warmly of _The Trojans_. That is good, but I should have done
    better if I had written one of Offenbach’s atrocities.

    “What will those toads of Parisians say to _Armida_?”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_8th March 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I am answering you this morning
    simply to tell you what happened yesterday at a great charity
    concert--with trebled prices--in the Cirque Napoléon, under
    Pasdeloup.

    “They played the great Septuor from _The Trojans_, Madame Charton
    sang; there was a chorus of a hundred and fifty, and the usual fine
    orchestra.

    “The whole programme was miserably received except the _Lohengrin_
    March, and the overture to the _Prophet_ was so hissed that the
    police had to turn out the malcontents.

    “Then came the Septuor. Endless applause, and an encore.

    “The second time it went even better. The audience spied me on my
    three-franc bench (they had not honoured me with a ticket). There
    were more calls, shouts, waving of hats and handkerchiefs.

    “‘_Vive Berlioz!_’ they cried. ‘Get up;
    we want to see you.’

    “I, the while, trying to hide myself!

    “Coming out, a crowd surrounded me on the boulevard. This morning
    many callers, and a charming letter from Legouvé’s daughter.

    “Liszt was there. I saw him from my perch. He has just come from
    Rome. Why were you not there too?

    “There were at least three thousand people. Once I should have been
    pleased....

    “The effect was grand, particularly the sound of the sea
    (impossible to give on the piano) at the passage:

                    ‘And the sleeping sea
    Whispers in dreams her sweet deep chords.’

    “It touched me profoundly.

    “My gallery neighbours, hearing that I was the author of it,
    pressed my hands and thanked me.

    “Why were you not there?”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_9th March._--Just a word added to what I wrote yesterday.

    “A few amateurs have written me a round-robin of congratulation.
    The letter is a slightly altered copy of that which I wrote to
    Spontini twenty-two years ago about his _Fernando Cortez_.

    “Is it not a pretty idea to apply to me what I said to him so long
    ago?”


                   _To_ MADAME MASSART.

    “_3rd September 1866._--Such a misfortune, dear madame! This
    morning--yes, really only this morning--I composed the most clever
    and complimentary letter to you--a master-piece of delicate, dainty
    flattery. Then I went to sleep and--when I awoke it was all gone,
    and I am reduced to mere commonplaces.

    “I will not speak of the boredom you must be suffering in your
    little card-board bandbox by the sea, lest I should drive you to
    commit suicide--by no means a suitable way out of the difficulty
    for a pretty woman!

    “Yet, what on earth _are_ you to do?

    “You have gone the round of Beethoven over and over again; you have
    read Homer; you know some of Shakespeare’s best works; you see the
    sea every day; you have friends and a husband who worships you.

    “Great heavens, what _is_ to become of you?

    “I do my best to make your sea-side life bearable by not coming
    near you. Can I do more?

    “I ought to be at Geneva, but a cousin of mine is going to be
    married next week and wants me to be one of his witnesses.

    “Could I refuse? One ought to help relations out of difficulties!

    “Perrin also wishes me to superintend the rehearsals of _Alcestis_,
    but he dawdles so, waiting for Society to come back to Paris (as if
    there were Society for _Alcestis_!), that I am going to leave him
    stranded and start for Geneva.

    “Ah! dear lady, how glorious it is! how grand! The other day at
    rehearsal we all wept like stags at bay.

    “‘What a man Gluck was!’ cried Perrin.

    “‘No,’ said I, ‘_we_ are the men. Don’t
    get confused.’

    “Taylor said yesterday that Gluck had more heart than Homer; truly,
    he is more thoroughly human.

    “And we are going to offer this food for the gods to pure idiots!

    “Is Massart shooting, fishing, painting, building, dreaming?

    “He has covered himself with glory. His pupils have carried off all
    the prizes this year; he can wallow in laurels, though he certainly
    might find a more comfortable bed!

    “Here ends my scribble; I press your learned hand.”


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “_10th November 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I ought to be in Vienna,
    but the concert is put off. I suppose that _Faust_ was not learnt
    to their satisfaction, and they only wish me to hear it when it is
    nearly ready.

    “It will be a real joy to listen to it again; I have not heard the
    whole of it since it was performed twelve years ago in Dresden.

    “The _Alcestis_ rehearsals have done me good; never did it appear
    so grand, and surely never before was it so finely rendered.

    “A whole new generation has arisen to worship.

    “The other day a lady near me sobbed so violently that every one
    around noticed her, and I got crowds of letters thanking me for my
    devoted care for Gluck.

    “Ingres is not the only one of our Institute colleagues who comes
    constantly; most of the painters and sculptors love the beautiful
    Antique, of which the very sorrow is not disfiguring.

    “I am sending you the pocket-score; you will easily read it and I
    am sure will enjoy it.”


                   _To_ M. ERNEST REYER.

    “VIENNA, _17th December 1866_.--Dear Reyer,--I only got up
    at four to-day, as yesterday over-did me.

    “It would be foolish of me to describe the recalls, encores,
    tears, and flowers I received after the performance of _Faust_ in
    the _Salle de la Redoute_; I had a chorus of three hundred, an
    orchestra of a hundred and fifty, and splendid soloists.

    “This evening there is to be a grand fête; three hundred artists
    and amateurs--among them the hundred and fifty lady-amateurs who,
    with their sweet fresh voices, sang my choruses.

    “How well, too, they had been trained by Herbeck, who first thought
    of giving my work in its entirety, and who would let himself be
    chopped in pieces for me.

    “To-morrow I am invited by the Conservatoire to hear Helmesberger
    conduct my _Harold_.

    “This has been the most perfect musical joy of my life, so forgive
    me if I say too much!

    “Well! this is one score saved at any rate. They can play it now in
    Vienna under Herbeck, who knows it by heart.

    “The Paris Conservatoire may leave me in outer darkness and stick
    to its antiquated repertoire if it likes.

    “You have drawn down this tirade on your own head by asking me to
    write!

    “Good-bye; I have been invited to Breslau to conduct _Romeo and
    Juliet_, but I must get back to Paris before the end of the month.”


                   _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND.

    “PARIS, _11th January 1867_.--It is midnight, dear friend.
    I write in bed, as usual; you will read my letter in bed--also as
    usual.

    “Your last letter hurt me; I read the suffering between the lines.
    I wanted to reply at once, but my tortures, medical stupidity,
    doses of laudanum (all useless and productive only of evil dreams),
    prevented me.

    “I see now how difficult it will be for us to meet. You cannot
    stir, and for three quarters of the year I cannot either. What are
    we to do?

    “My journey to Vienna nearly made an end of me--even the warmth of
    their enthusiasm could not protect me from the rigours of their
    winter. This awful climate will be the death of me.

    “Dear Louis writes of his morning rides in the forests of
    Martinique, and describes the lovely tropical vegetation--the real
    hot sun. That is what you and I both need.

    “Dear friend, the dull rumbling of passing carriages breaks the
    silence of the night. Paris is damp, cold, and muddy--Parisian
    Paris!

    “Now all is still; it sleeps the sleep of the unrighteous.

    “Have you the full score of my _Mass for the Dead_? If I were
    threatened with the destruction of all that I have ever written, it
    would be for that Mass that I should beg life.

    “Good-bye; I shall lie awake and think of you.”


                   _To_ FERDINAND HILLER.

    “PARIS, _8th February 1867_.--Dear Hiller,--You are the
    best of good friends!

    “I will do as you bid me; take my courage in both hands, and on the
    23rd start for Cologne.

    “I shall be at the Hotel Royal by evening, but do not engage
    _rooms_ for me, one tiny one is enough.

    “If I cannot possibly travel, I will send on the orchestral
    score of the duet from _Beatrice_. It is very effective and not
    difficult--almost any singers could manage it, provided they were
    not geese.

    “To be sure, we both have an intimate acquaintance with these
    winged fowl!

    “You talk like the doctors. ‘It is neuralgia.’

    “That is just like Madame Sand and her gardener.

    “She told him the garden wall had tumbled down.

    “‘Oh, it is nothing, madame, the frost
    did it.’

    “‘Yes, but it must be rebuilt.’

    “‘It’s only the frost, that’s all.’

    “‘I do not say it is not the frost, but
    there it is on the ground.’

    “‘Don’t worry about it, madame, the
    frost did it.’

    “I can write no more. I must go to bed.”


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.

    “_11th June 1867._--Thanks for your letter, dear friend, it did me
    good.

    “Yes, I am in Paris, but so ill I can hardly write. Besides, I am
    worried about Louis, who is in Mexico, and I do not know what those
    Mexican ruffians may not be up to.

    “The Exhibition is turning Paris into an Inferno. I have not been
    there yet, for I can hardly walk.

    “Yesterday there was a great function at Court, but I was too weak
    to dress and go to it....

    “I wrote so far at the Conservatoire, where I was one of the jury
    in awarding the Exhibition musical prize. We heard a hundred and
    four cantatas, and I had the very great pleasure of seeing the
    prize unanimously awarded to my young friend, Camille Saint-Saëns,
    one of the greatest musicians of our time.

    “I have been urgently pressed to go to New York where, say the
    Americans, I am popular. They played _Harold_ five times last year
    with success truly _Viennese_.

    “I am quite elated with our jury meeting. How happy Saint-Saëns
    will be! I hurried off to tell him, but he was out with his mother.

    “He is an astounding pianist.

    “Well! at last our musical world has done something sensible; it
    makes me feel quite strong, I could not have written you such a
    long letter were it not for my joy.”




XXXVIII

DARKNESS AND LIGHT


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.

    “_30th June 1867._--A terrible grief has fallen upon me. My poor
    boy, at thirty-three captain of a fine vessel, has just died at
    Havana.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_15th July 1867._--Just a few words, since you ask for them; but
    it is wrong of me to sadden you too.

    “I am so much worse that I am really hardly alive and have barely
    sense enough to grasp poor Louis’ business affairs; fortunately one
    of his friends is helping me. Thanks for your letter; forgive my
    stupidity. I am fit for nothing but sleep.

    “Adieu, adieu!”


                   _To_ MADAME DAMCKE at Montreux.

    “PARIS, _24th September 1867_.--Dear Madame Damcke,--I
    should have written sooner had I known your address, therefore
    double thanks for your letter.

    “My answer is short; I am as ill as usual.

    “After my fifth bath at Néris the doctor, hearing me speak, felt my
    pulse and cried:

    “‘Be off out of this as fast as you
    can; the waters are the worst possible for you, you are on the
    verge of laryngitis. Confound it all, it is really serious.’

    “So off I went the same evening and was nearly choked by a fit of
    coughing in the train.

    “My nieces at Vienne nursed me devotedly but, when my throat got
    better, back came my neuralgia more fiendishly than ever.

    “I stayed long enough to see my elder niece married. Thirty-three
    relations came from all parts to the wedding--but _one_, alas! was
    missing.

    “The one I most rejoiced to see was my old uncle, the colonel. He
    is eighty-four. We both wept on meeting; he seemed almost ashamed
    of still being alive--how much more, then, should I!

    “I spend most of my time in bed, but the Grand Duchess Helen is
    coaxing me to get up and go to St Petersburg. She wishes to see
    me and I have agreed to go on the 15th November and conduct six
    concerts. Best wishes to you both.”


                   _To_ M. AND MME MASSART.

    “PARIS, _4th October 1867_.--Yes, it is quite true. I am
    going to Russia. The Grand Duchess Helen was here the other day
    and made me such generous proposals that, after some hesitation, I
    accepted. I am to conduct six Conservatoire concerts; five of the
    grandest works of the great masters and the sixth entirely of my
    own compositions.

    “I am to have rooms in her palace and the use of one of her
    carriages; she pays all my travelling expenses and gives me fifteen
    thousand francs.

    “I shall be tired to death--ill as I am already. Will you not come
    too? You should play your jovial Bach concerto in D minor and we
    would enjoy ourselves.

    “Three days ago an American,[33] hearing that I had accepted the
    Russian engagement, came and offered me a hundred thousand francs
    to go to New York next year. What do you think of that? Meanwhile,
    he has had a bronze bust of me cast, to place in a splendid hall
    that he has built over there.

    “If I were younger it would please me greatly.

    “My mother-in-law thanks you for your kind messages. Are you not
    ashamed of slaughtering pheasants? It is a noble thing, forsooth,
    to go out into the poultry yard and kill off the chickens!!!
    Despite all, my friendship holds good, faithful and warm. Each day
    I appreciate more thoroughly your loving hearts.”


                   _To the Same._

    “PARIS, _2nd November 1867_.--How are you, my lord and my
    lady?

    “How is your house?

    “Have you forgotten your French?

    “Have you forgotten your music?

    “Have you forgotten how to write?

    “Have you forgotten that you hear of nothing?

    “Have you forgotten that we have forgotten you?

    “Can you believe that we get on perfectly well without you?

    “Can you believe that you are....

    “Out of fashion?

    “Good-night.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “_2nd November._--Day of the dead, and, when one is dead, one is
    dead for a long, long time.”


                   _To_ H. FERRAND.[34]

    “_22nd October 1867._--Dear Humbert,--Here is the letter you asked
    me to return. Only a line to-day as I took laudanum last night and
    have not had time yet to sleep it off. I had to get up this morning
    to do some necessary business.

    “So now back to bed. A thousand greetings.”


                   _To_ M. EDOUARD ALEXANDRE.

    “ST PETERSBURG, _15th December 1867_.--Dear friends,--How
    kind of you to send me your news; it seems neglectful of me not to
    have done the same ere this.

    “I am loaded with favour by everyone--from the Grand Duchess down
    to the least member of the orchestra.

    “They found out that the 11th was my birthday and sent me
    delightful presents. In the evening I was asked to a banquet of
    a hundred and fifty guests where, as you may imagine, I was well
    toasted. Both public and press are most eulogistic. At the second
    concert I was recalled six times after the _Symphonie Fantastique_,
    which was executed with tremendous spirit and the last part of
    which was encored.

    “What an orchestra! what _ensemble_! what precision! I wonder if
    Beethoven ever heard anything like it. In spite of my pain, as
    soon as I reach the conductor’s desk and am surrounded by these
    sympathetic souls, I revive and I believe am conducting now as I
    never did before.

    “Yesterday we did the second act of _Orfeo_, the _C. minor
    Symphony_ and my _Carnaval Romain_. All was grandly done. The girl
    who sang Orfeo in Russian had an unequalled voice and sang well too.

    “These poor Russians only knew Gluck from mutilated fragments, so
    you may imagine my pleasure in drawing aside the curtain that hid
    his mighty genius.

    “In a fortnight we are to do the first act of _Alcestis_. The Grand
    Duchess has ordered that I am to be implicitly obeyed; I do not
    abuse her order, but I use it.

    “She has asked me to go some day and read her _Hamlet_, and the
    other day I happened to speak to her ladies-in-waiting, in her
    presence, of Saint-Victor’s book and now they are all rushing off
    to buy and admire _Hommes et Dieux_.

    “Here they love the beautiful; they live for literature and music;
    they have within them a constant flame that makes them lose
    consciousness of the frost and the snow.

    “Why am I so old, so worn-out?

    “Good-bye all. I love you and press your hands.”


                   _To_ M. AND MME MASSART.

    “ST PETERSBURG, _22/10 December 1867_.--Dear Madame
    Massart,--I am ill with eighteen horse power; I cough like six
    donkeys with the glanders; yet, before I retire to bed, I want to
    write to you.

    “All goes well here.

    “At the fifth concert I want to give Beethoven’s _Choral Symphony_,
    at least the first three parts, I am afraid to risk the vocal part
    as I am not sufficiently sure of my chorus.

    “I have been invited to Moscow and the Grand Duchess permits me to
    go.

    “The gentlemen of the semi-Asiatic capital propound the most
    irresistible arguments _tace_ Wieniawski, who does not wish me to
    jump at their offer. But I never could haggle and should be ashamed
    to do so now.

    “I have just been interrupted by a message from the Grand Duchess.
    She has a musical soirée to-night and wishes to hear the duet
    from _Beatrice_. Her pianist and two singers know it perfectly in
    French, so I have sent the score, with a message to them not to be
    nervous as they will get through all right.

    “I shall go back to bed. I would tell you a lot more but I am tired
    out and am not used to being up at such unreasonable hours.

    “It is half-past nine. I shall take some laudanum to be sure of
    sleep.

    “You know that you are charming. But why the devil _are_ you so
    charming? Farewell, I am your

                               H. B.”



                   _To the Same._

                               “_18th January 1868._

    “DEAR MADAME MASSART,--I found quite a pile of letters on
    my return from Moscow, among them one that gave me even greater
    pleasure than yours; you can guess from whom it came.

    “Yours, nevertheless, rejoices me too.

    “The Michael Square is noiseless under its snowy mantle; crows,
    pigeons and sparrows stir not; sledges have ceased to run; there is
    a great funeral--that of Prince Dolgorouki--at which the Emperor
    and all the Court were present.

    “My programme for Saturday is settled.

    “Oh! the joy when I lay down my baton at the end of _Harold_ and
    say:

    “‘In three days I start for Paris.’

    “I cannot stand this climate, although I felt better in Moscow.
    Such enthusiasm there!

    “The first concert was in the Riding School and there were ten
    thousand six hundred people present. And when they applauded the
    Offertory from my _Requiem_, with its two-note chorus, I must own
    that the uncommon religious feeling shown by that mighty crowd,
    went to my heart.

    “Do not speak of a concert in Paris.

    “If I _gave_ one to my friends and spent three thousand francs over
    it I should only be the more reviled by the press.

    “After seeing you I shall go right on to St Symphorien and thence
    to Monaco to roll in the violets and sleep in the sun.

    “I suffer so continually, dear lady; my paroxysms of pain are so
    frequent that I cannot think what is to become of me.

    “I do not want to die now, for I have something to live for.”[35]


                   _To_ WLADIMIR STASSOFF.

    “PARIS, _1st March 1868_.--I did not write sooner, I was
    too ill. And now I want to tell you that I am leaving for Monaco at
    seven this evening.

    “I cannot imagine why I do not die.

    “But since I am living, I am going to see my dear Nice, the rocks
    of Villefranche and the sun of Monaco.

    “I hear that the sculptor is having three copies of my New York
    bust cast; was it you who suggested getting one for the St
    Petersburg Conservatoire? More can easily be made.

    “Address your letters to me to 4 Rue de Calais, Paris, and they
    will be forwarded.

    “Oh! to think that I shall soon be lying on the marble seats of
    Monaco, in the sun, by the sea!!

    “Do not be too severely just to me. Write me long letters in return
    for my short ones; bethink you that I am ill, that your letters do
    me good; don’t talk nonsense and don’t speak of my composing....

    “My kindest regards to your charming sister-in-law and daughter and
    to your brother. I can see them all so vividly before me. Write
    soon. Your letter and the SUN will give me new life.

    “Unfortunate wight that you are! You live in the snow!”


                   _To the Same._

                               “PARIS, _April 1868_.

    “MY DEAR STASSOFF,--You call me _Monsieur_ Berlioz, both
    you and Cui. I forgive you both!

    “I was nearly killed the other day. I went to Monaco sun-hunting
    and, three days after in scrambling down the rocks, I fell head
    first on to my face and bled so profusely that, for a long time, I
    was unable to get up and go back to the hotel.

    “However, as I had taken my place in the omnibus to Nice, I was
    bound to get up and go back there next day.

    “Hardly arrived there, I wished to see once more the terrace by
    the sea, of which my recollection was so vivid. I went down and
    sat there but, in changing my seat, again I fell on my face. Two
    passers-by lifted me with great difficulty and took me to the Hotel
    des Etrangers, where I was staying, which was close by. I was put
    to bed and there I stayed, without a doctor, seeing no one but the
    servants for a week.

    “Feeling a little better after my week’s seclusion and damaged as
    I was, I took the train back to Paris.

    “My mother-in-law and servant exclaimed with horror on seeing me;
    but now I have had a doctor and he has treated me so cleverly that,
    after more than a month of it, I can barely walk, holding on to the
    furniture.

    “My nose is nearly all right outside.

    “Would you kindly find out why my score of the _Trojans_ has not
    been returned. I suppose the copying is finished and that it is no
    longer needed.

    “I can write no more ... if I wait till I am better it may be a
    long while.... Do write to me. It will be a real charity.”


                   _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL.

    “PARIS, _26th May 1868_.--I have been greatly tried and
    find it still hard to write. My two falls, one at Monaco, the other
    at Nice, have taken all my strength.

    “The traces are almost gone now, but my old trouble has come back
    and I suffer more than ever.

    “I wish I could have seen you and Lecourt when I was near
    Marseilles; I should have gone round that way had I not been in
    such a sad state.

    “Yet to meet you would have upset me more than to see anyone else.
    Few of my friends loved Louis as you did. I cannot forget it, so
    you must forgive me.”


                   _To_ WLADIMIR STASSOFF.

                               “PARIS, _21st August 1868_.

    “DEAR STASSOFF,--You see I leave out the _Monsieur_.

    “I have just come from Grenoble, where they had almost forced me to
    go and preside at a sort of musical festival and to be present at
    the unveiling of a statue of Napoleon I.

    “They ate and drank and did a hundred and fifty other things and I
    felt so ill....

    “They fetched me in a carriage and toasted me, but I could not
    reply. The Mayor of Grenoble was full of compliments, he presented
    me with a gilt crown, but I had to sit a whole hour at that banquet.

    “Next day I left and arrived home at eleven at night, more dead
    than alive.

    “I feel good for nothing and I get such letters--asking me to
    do impossibilities. They want me to say nice things of a German
    artist, which is right enough since I agree thoroughly, but at the
    expense of a Russian artist of whom I think well also and whom they
    want to oust in favour of the German.

    “I cannot lend myself to it. What a devil of a world this is!

    “I feel that I am dying; I believe in nothing; but I long to see
    you, you might perhaps cheer me up--you and Cui. I am beyond
    measure bored and weary. All my friends are away in the country
    or shooting. They ask me to go and visit them, but I have not the
    spirit.

    “Write, I beg; as shortly as you will, but write! I still feel the
    effects of my Monaco and Nice accidents.

    “If you are in St Petersburg write me even _six lines_, I shall be
    so grateful.

    “You are so kind; show it now.

    “I press your hands.”

Berlioz lived seven months longer.

On returning from Russia he consulted a physician who asked:

“Are you a philosopher?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Then gather all the courage you can from philosophy, for you are
incurable.”

He was evidently too worn and weak to take the Riviera journey alone.

Although warmly welcomed and cared for at his hotel, his two falls
could not but use up his little remaining strength, and that little was
cruelly drained by the last journey to Grenoble--a strangely weird and
dramatic episode, a worthy conclusion to his stormy, overcast life. The
scene is well described by M. Bernard:--

“In a brilliantly lighted hall, hung with magnificent draperies, at a
richly spread table a gay crowd awaits the chief guest of the evening.

“The curtains are torn aside, and a phantom appears. The ghost of
Banquo? No, the skeleton form of Berlioz, his face pale and thin, his
eyes vacant and wandering, his head trembling, his lips drawn in a
bitter smile.

“They crowd around him and press his hands--those palsied hands that
have so often led the armies of music to victory. A crown is placed
upon his silver locks.

“Vacantly he gazes round upon these fellow-citizens, gathered to do him
homage--sincere, but how belated!--mechanically he rises to reply to
words of which he has hardly grasped the meaning.

“Suddenly a furious Alpine gale dashes down into the hall, tearing at
the curtains, extinguishing the lights; outside the squall whistles
shrilly, the lightning cuts the blackness of the clouds, casting
sinister gleams on the faces of the dumb and startled assembly.

“Alone, amid the howls of the tempest, Berlioz stands, wrapped in
flashes of vivid green--the spirit of symphony--colossal musician,
whose apotheosis is heralded by Nature with her wildest, grandest
music.”

That was the end.

On Monday morning, the 8th March 1869, Hector Berlioz died.

His funeral took place on the following Thursday at the Church of the
Trinity.

The Institute sent a deputation, the band of the National Guard played
selections from his _Funeral Symphony_; on the coffin lay wreaths from
the St Cecilia Society, from the youths of Hungary, from the Russian
nobles, and from the town of Grenoble.

He was dead--the atonement began.




INDEX


_Africaine, L’_, 277.

_Alcestis_, 26, 231, 237, 285, 293.

Alexandre, 249, 292.

Aleyrac, d’, 18.

Alizard, 52.

Allard, 140.

Ambros, Dr, 199.

Amussat, 17, 192.

Andrieux, 17, 19, 20.

_Antony_, 136.

_Arab Horse_, 18.

_Armida_, 112, 282.

Artot, 160.

_Athalie_, 21.

Aubré, d’, 85.


Balfe, 278.

Ballanche, 141.

Balzac, 202.

Barbier, 142-3, 152.

Batta, 160-1.

Bauderali, Madame, 274.

Beale, 214, 224.

_Beatrice and Benedict_, 233-4, 238-40, 245, 248, 272.

Beethoven, 39, 41, 60-2, 70, 78, 81, 143-4, 174, 194.

Belloni, 200.

Benazet, 227, 233, 240, 248.

Benedict, 160.

Ber, 231.

Berlioz, Adèle, 217, 254.

    “    Dr, 2, 81, 140, 211.

    “    Louis, 140-1, 156, 189, 201, 206, 215, 217,
            220-3, 234, 237-8, 252, 269, 272, 275, 277, 281, 287-9.

    “    Madame, 30.

    “    Marie Recio, 222, 233, 236, 238, 249.

    “    Nanci, 10, 30, 217.

    “    Victor, 212.

Bernard, Daniel, 272.

    “    General, 146, 148.

Bertin, Armand, 146, 151, 155.

    “     “     142, 146, 150, 202.

Berton, 40.

Bienaimé, 150.

Bishop, Sir H., 210.

Blanc, 151.

Blanche, 274.

Bloc, 57, 75, 76.

Boïeldieu, 40, 79-81.

Boissieux, 45.

Bordogni, 149.

Bouché, 187.

Branchu, Madame, 17, 28.

Broadwood, 224.

Broderotti, 248.

Brugnières, 59.

Bulow, von, 234, 252.

Byron, 97, 119, 139.


Capitaine, Mdlle., 169.

_Carnaval Romain_, 153, 246.

Carné, de, 62.

Carvalho, 242, 244-5.

Carus, Dr, 181.

Castilblaze, 47-8.

Catel, 40, 61.

Cazalès, 62.

Cécile, Admiral, 222.

_Cellini, Benvenuto_, 142, 152-4, 223, 228.

Charbonnel, 36-7.

Charton-Demeur, Madame, 239-40, 243, 245, 270, 282-3.

Châteaubriand, 23, 74.

Chélard, 175-7.

Chénié, 45.

Cherubini, 26, 32, 38, 40,
  54-5, 57, 60, 66, 69, 70-1, 74, 93, 129, 146, 148-50, 190.

_Childhood of Christ_, 201, 222, 226, 249.

Chopin, 51, 133, 162, 205.

Choral Symphony, 214, 293.

_Cinq Mai_, 183.

_Cleopatra_, 78-9.

_Correspondant, Le_, 74, 78.

Costa, Sir M., 49, 215, 223.

Coste, 142.

Crispino, 115, 116.

Cui, 296, 298.


Dabadie, Madame, 80.

_Damnation de Faust_, 75, 128, 200-2, 276, 285, 286.

Damcke, 245, 270, 279, 290.

Damrémont, General, 146

Dauverné, 166.

_Death of Abel_, 33.

_Death of Orpheus_, 40, 54-6.

Delessert, 191.

Dérivis, 17, 28, 59, 161.

Deschamps, 133.

Dessauer, 188.

_Devin du Village_, 42.

Dobré, Melle., 187.

Dochler, 160.

_Don Giovanni_, 49.

Dorant, 10.

Dorval, Madame, 136.

Dumas, 135, 162.

Duponchel, 149, 152-3.

Dupont, 56-7, 59, 70.

Duprez, 57, 161, 187.


Eckstein, d’, 74.

Estelle, 6, 8, 120, 124, 211-12, 221, 256-271, 279, 282.

_Estelle et Némorin_, 12, 21, 25.

Emperor of Austria, 195.

   “       the French, 64, 234, 236-7, 242.

Empress of Russia, 202.

   “       the French, 233-4, 237.

Erard, Madame, 252, 273.


_Faust_, 73, 75, 77.

Ferrand, 23, 28, 33, 58, 62, 128, 189, 272-3, 285, 292.

Fétis, 49, 95, 132, 164.

_Figaro_, 49.

_Fingal’s Cave_, 178.

Fleury, 100-1.

Flotow, de, 274.

_Francs-Juges_, 33, 54, 56, 58, 77, 83, 94, 136, 171.

Frankoski, 159.

Freyschütz, 46-7, 78, 171, 187.

Friedland, 202.


_Gamester_, 21.

Gardel, 38.

Garrick, 49.

Gasparin, de, 143-4, 148-9.

Gasperini, 245, 274.

Gatayes, 166.

Gay-Lussac, 17.

_Gazette Musicale_, 141-2.

Génast, 176.

Gervaert, 233.

Gluck, 18, 20-1, 29, 41-2, 50, 62-3.

Goethe, 73, 175.

_God of the Christians_, 68.

Gossec, 21.

Goubeaux, 160.

Gounet, 83, 133, 235.

Gounod, 233, 274.

Gras, Madame, 209.

Grasset, 90.

Grétry, 62.

Grisi, 161.

Gros, 28.

Guédéonoff, 203-4.

Guérin, 28.

Guhr, 168-70, 175.

Gye, 210.


Habeneck, 49, 59, 60, 93-4, 103, 147, 152, 163-7, 190.

Halévy, 146.

Hallé, 160-1.

_Hamlet_, 50, 52, 73, 136.

Handel, 62.

_Harold_, 139, 142, 155, 171, 175, 185, 246.

Haydn, 61.

Heine, 183.

Helen, Grand Duchess, 290, 292-4.

Heller, Stephen, 18, 177, 252.

Helmesberger, 286.

Herbeck, 286.

Hiller, Ferdinand, 81, 85, 93, 112, 127, 162, 169, 175, 288.

Hogarth, 210.

Hohenzollern-Hechingen, Prince von, 172, 246.

Hortense, Queen, 110.

Horwath, 197-8.

Hotin, 27.

Hummel, 176.

Huguenots, 143.

Hugo, Victor, 143, 151.


Imbert, 8.

_Imperial Cantata_, 231.

_Iphigenia in Tauris_, 18, 43, 210.

Irish Melodies, 51, 94, 179.


Janin, Jules, 135, 157, 219.

_Jean de Paris_, 80.

_Journal des Débats_, 24, 63, 141.

Jullien, 207-11.


_King Lear_, 106, 108, 112, 173, 178, 192, 246.

King of Hanover, 206, 227.

   “    Prussia, 202, 206.

   “    Saxony, 128, 228.

Klopstock, 119.

Krebs, 186.

Kreutzer, L., 245.

    “     R., 33, 40, 43, 49, 60.


Lablachk, 160.

_La Captive_, 117.

Lachner, 175.

Lachnith, 48.

Lafayette, 87.

Larochefoucauld, 33, 54.

Le Chuzeau, 31.

Lecourt, 297.

Lefevbre, 117.

Légouvé, 154, 161.

Lenz, 203.

_Lélio_, 79, 117, 128, 130.

Lesueur, 18, 19, 25, 28, 33, 39, 40, 47, 60, 62, 81.

Le Tessier, 46.

Lethière, 69.

Levaillant, 67.

Levasseur, 160.

Lipinski, 182-3.

Lindpaintner, 169-172, 174.

Liszt, 51, 93, 133, 136-7, 140,
  154, 159, 173, 199, 200, 205, 220,
  228, 234, 236-7, 242, 252, 273, 279, 283.

Lobe, 175-6.

Louis Philippe, 87.

Lubbert, 76.

Lumley, 209.

Lüttichau, von, 228.

Lwoff, 203, 213.


Macready, 209.

_Magic Flute_, 48, 50.

Malibran, 90.

Mangin, 244.

Marié, 188.

Marezeck, 210.

Marmion, 5.

Mars, Mdlle., 132.

_Marseillaise_, 87, 166.

Marschner, 176.

_Martha_, 274.

Marx, 75.

Massart, Madame, 251, 277, 280, 284, 293.

Masson, 22.

_Medea_, 26.

Méhul, 18.

Mendelssohn, 101-2, 112, 114, 177, 183, 209.

Mérimée, 251.

Meyerbeer, 143, 206, 229, 277.

Michaud, 63.

Michel, 35.

_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, 179.

Milanollo, 169.

Millevoye, 18.

Moke, Marie Pleyel-, 85, 91-2, 95, 108.

Moke, Madame, 91-2, 112.

_Monde Dramatique_, 141.

Montag, 176.

_Montecchi_, 109.

Montfort, 100, 112.

Morel, 162, 191, 228, 252, 297.

Mori, Mllde., 59.

Morny, de, 242.

Müller, 184-5.

Munier, 123.

Musard, 141.


Napoleon, Prince, 231.

Nathan-Treillet, Madame, 167.

Naudin, Mdlle., 161.

Nernst, 202.

Nicolaï, 194.

_Nina_, 2, 18.

_Noces des Fées_, 118.

Noailles, de, 91.


Œdipus, 35, 45.

Ortigue, d’, 159, 180, 213, 215, 219, 236, 245.

_Orpheus_, 237.


Paccini, 110.

Paër, 40, 60, 108.

Paganini, 108, 138, 155-8, 125.

    “     Achille, 155.

Panseron, 59.

Parish-Alvars, 183.

Pasdeloup, 283.

Perne, 26.

Perrin, 285.

Persuis, 18.

Pfifferari, 117.

Piccini, 21.

Pillet, 164, 167, 187.

Pingard, 67-8, 71.

Pischek, 169, 195.

Planché, 210.

Pleyel, 102.

   “    Marie (_see_ Moke).

Pons, de, 24-5, 31-2, 44.

Pohl, Madame, 246.

Pouilly, Madame, 47.


_Queen Mab_, 114, 165, 184.

_Quotidienne_, 63.


Raday, Count, 197.

Recio, Marie, 163.

Reeves, Sims, 209, 210.

Régnault, 71.

Reicha, 33, 38, 39.

Remusat, de, 162.

_Renovateur_, 141-2.

Reissiger, 182.

_Requiem_, 166, 180, 183, 190, 287, 294.

_Resurrexit_, 25, 57-8, 118.

_Revue Européenne_, 62-3, 119.

  “   _Musicale_, 95, 132.

Reyer, 286.

Robert, 14, 16.

Rocquemont, 191.

_Rob Roy_, 117.

Romberg, 190, 203.

_Romeo and Juliet_, 49, 52, 71, 158-9, 183, 203, 227, 246, 286.

Rothschild, 156.

Rossini, 41, 62-3.

Rouget de Lisle, 87.

Rousseau, 42.

Rubini, 161.


Sacchini, 35.

Saint-Félix, 133.

  “   Léger, 35.

  “   Saëns, 282, 289.

Salieri, 17, 29.

Sand, Madame, 288.

_Sappho_, 40.

_Sardanapalus_, 89, 93-4, 136.

Saxe-Weimar, Grand Duke, 177, 186, 206, 227, 248.

Saxe-Weimar, Grand Duchess, 246

Sayn-Wittgenstein, Princess von, 242.

Schiller, 175-6.

Schilling, Dr, 170-2.

Schlesinger, 130, 140.

Schlick, 102-3.

Schoelcher, 161.

Schott, 168.

Schumann, 180.

    “     Madame, 181.

Schutter, 130.

Scribe, 142.

Seifriz, 246-7.

Shakespeare, 50, 60, 219.

Smart, Sir G., 210.

Smithson, Henriette, 50, 52,
  58, 72-3, 82, 84, 92, 129-136,
  140, 156, 163, 217-20, 227, 250.

Snel, 163.

Spiegel, Baron von, 176.

Spohr, 78.

Spontini, 33, 41, 50, 110, 134, 284.

Spontini, Madame, 273.

Stassoff, 295-7.

Steinway, 291.

Stolz, Madame, 187.

_Stratonice_, 18.

Strakosch, 258.

Strauss, 191.

Suat, 253.

_Symphonie Fantastique_, 75, 94, 117, 124, 136, 140, 143, 155, 292.


Täglichsbeck, 173.

Tajan-Rogé, 207.

Tamburini, 161.

Talma, 21.

Tannhäuser, 236.

Tasso, 68.

_Tempest_, 76-7, 95.

_Te Deum_, 228.

Thalberg, 160, 183.

Thénard, 17.

Thomas, 162.

Tilmant, 191.

Topenheim, Baron von, 170.

_Trojans, The_, 224, 232-3, 237, 241-5, 267, 269, 274, 276.

Troupenas, 132.


Vaillant, Marshal, 251-2.

Valentino, 22-3, 43-4.

Vanderheufel-Duprez, Madame, 249.

Vernet, Horace, 98, 101-2, 106, 113, 118, 124, 127.

Vernet, Mdlle., 117, 125-6.

Viardot, Madame, 237, 249.

Vieuxtemps, 205.

Vigny, de, 141-2.

Vogt, 18.

Volney, de, 67.


Wagner, 182, 228-9, 236-7.

Wailly, de, 142, 152, 219.

Walewski, Count, 237.

_Walpurgis Nacht_, 179, 180.

_Waverley_, 37, 54.

Weber, 41, 46-8, 60, 62, 136.

Wielhorski, Count, 203.

Wieniawski, 294.

_World’s Last Day_, 118.


X., de, 144-8, 151.


Zinkeisen, 184.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] From original drawings by J. Y. DAWBARN.

[1] Berlioz’ “burnt” does not necessarily mean that they were put in
the fire, but simply that they were relegated to a portfolio limbo,
whence they sometimes emerged to be used again with fine results.

[2] Gluck and Piccini were of entirely opposite schools.

[3] Chopin and Liszt once spent a whole night hunting for him in the
fields.

[4] Of him more later on.

[5] Between these two letters Berlioz had a meeting with Miss Smithson,
who told him frankly that his pretensions were impossible.

[6] _Le Correspondant._

[7] Moore’s “Irish Melodies.”

[8] In his letters he says that Mademoiselle Moke was present with her
mother.--ED.

[9] A play upon his red hair.

[10] Mendelssohn’s letter of 29th March 1831 gives a very severe
description of Berlioz, under the initial “Y,” showing how utterly out
of sympathy the two young men were, and how incapable at that time
Mendelssohn was of reciprocating Berlioz’s whole-hearted appreciation.

Later on, when they met in Leipzig, the situation improved.

[11] It was Diano Marina, near Oneglia.

[12] Gave popular concerts of dance-music and introduced the galop.

[13] It was really written by Léon de Wailly: Alfred de Vigny merely
revised it.

[14] In 1848.

[15] Liszt afterwards mounted it successfully at Weimar.

[16] Since writing this, I conducted the first four parts of it in
London and never did I have a more brilliant reception, nor was I
better received by the press. (In a letter to Ferrand he says: “I am
quite pleased with my success. _Romeo and Juliet_ made people cry. I
cannot go into the details of my three concerts, but I may say that the
new score made some notable conversions. An Englishman bought my baton
from Schlesinger’s servant for 150 francs. The press has treated me
splendidly.”)

[17] Mademoiselle Recio.

[18] I had not then heard the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_.

[19] Composed in 1834.

[20] Ferrand was in Sardinia.

[21] My intimate friend, now director of the Marseilles Conservatoire.

[22] [It is an extraordinary thing that the end never _is_ audible;
applause always begins too soon and the curious and most effective
treatment of the final chords is lost.]

[23] _Jerusalem_, given in Paris in November.

[24] Alas, I succumbed! My five-act opera _The Trojans_ is the result.

[25] Madame Berlioz.

[26] In a letter to Ferrand, Berlioz gives his reason, which was that
Madame Viardot’s failing voice made too many cuts and alterations
necessary, thereby changing the whole form of the opera. However,
to please Count Walewski he consented to be present at some of the
rehearsals and help with his advice.

[27] Announcing Madame Berlioz’ death at St Germain-en-Laye.

[28] [It was actually accepted. See letter to Ferrand.]

[29] [This is unjust to Carvalho, who risked much and really had not
the wherewithal to comply with his exacting colleague’s demands.]

[30] Berlioz had been Companion since 1839.

[31] An untranslateable pun. _On vous demande comment vous avez passé
la nuit jamais comment vous passez l’ennui._

[32] Written on his visit to Madame Fournier.

[33] Steinway.

[34] The last letter.

[35] Or “on.” Berlioz’ phrase admits of either interpretation.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life of Hector Berlioz as written
by himself in his Letters and Memoirs, by Hector Berlioz

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